


For the Love of the Nation

by YellowFlannelFrog



Category: French History RPF, French Revolution RPF
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29816151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowFlannelFrog/pseuds/YellowFlannelFrog
Summary: Maximilien Robespierre and Jean-Paul Marat are totally gay, and no you won't change my mind.
Relationships: Jean-Paul Marat/Maximilien Robespierre
Kudos: 2





	For the Love of the Nation

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a play I wrote. I had more scenes in mind to write, but I've put it off for a while now - however, the end is still satisfying enough, so you won't hate me too much for leaving this (I hope).
> 
> I'm pretty proud of this thing, so, hey, may as well give it a shot, right?

It was a clear, sunny day in Paris. Beside the Jacobin club the river gurgled by, stirring up a cool breeze that was surprisingly welcome in the noontime summer heat. The sky was blue with nary a cloud in sight, and from this open firmament the sun beat down remorseless and unimpeded. 

The Jacobin club itself was a less-than-imposing two-story building, constructed from a mixture of sandstone, brick, and plaster. Originally, its purpose had been that of a monastery, but it had been long abandoned, and was now converted to the religion of patriotic zeal. Besides the Jacobin club was a small hotel sporting multiple bedrooms and a conveniently placed cafe on the first floor which, thanks to its proximity to the political club, had a steady stream of business. The cafe’s double doors, facing the river, were open to let in the breeze: a halfhearted attempt to lessen the stifling atmosphere inside. The air was heavy, thick, clogged with unavoidable side-effects of massive gatherings of people; conversation, sweat, and bodies. The members of the club milled listlessly about. There was no official meeting today, and the Jacobins instead were taking advantage of this time to eat, drink and gossip. The cafe was dim, the lamps left unlit in order not to exacerbate the heat. 

From his table in the corner, Maximilien Robespierre watched his fellow politicians. A bead of sweat wove its way over his high forehead, under his spectacles, and along the pursed crease of his mouth. He wiped it irritably away. Robespierre had only recently arrived in Paris, and he was deeply regretting his choice to only bring his two most unassuming black jackets. The Paris sun did not allow for such mistakes. He vowed to get a new jacket as soon as possible. 

Another drop of sweat pearled beneath his wig. Robespierre sighed. He refused to remove his wig (to do so would be to mar the impeccability of his dress), but he suspected that this summer would be an ongoing fight between his sense of propriety and fashion against the heat. Perhaps there was some sense in the removal of wigs from the everyday garb of French citizens. Still, a wig provided one with an air of respectability and gravitas; mucking about in politics bareheaded was just as clever as attempting to mount a horse from behind. Not that Maximilien Robespierre had ever ridden a horse. The carriage ride from Arras to Paris had been bumpy enough without him climbing directly onto the animals leading it. Besides, horses were so tall. And wide. There was no way, Robespierre reasoned, that his short and unaccustomed legs would keep him on a horse. In all likelihood, he would topple off, possibly sprain a wrist, and ruin a perfectly good set of breaches in the process. Overall, it was much safer and more reasonable to admire horses from the ground. 

“Max! Maxime!”

A familiar voice jolted Robespierre out of his thoughts. He glanced up. Elbowing his way through the crowd, with the easy, graceful confidence of their school days, was Camille Desmoulins. 

“Camille.”

“Yeah, hi.” Desmoulins plonked himself down into a chair. “Sorry I’m late. It was hard to find you in this crowd.”

Robespierre shrugged, an almost imperceptible movement, and Desmoulins smiled. “Still quite the conversationalist, I see.” 

“I’m here for business, citoyen, not idle chatter.”

Desmoulins snorted, pushing his long dark curls aggressively out of his face. “How can you stand wearing a wig in this heat? There is a time and a place for fashion statements, Max, and this isn’t one of them.”

Robespierre opened his mouth to retort, decided it wasn’t worth the trouble, and turned instead to the man who’d followed Desmoulins to his table. “I suppose you would also like to make a jibe about my dressing habits?”

The big man laughed, a deep hearty chuckle that crumpled his scarred face, mashing his eyes into nonexistence. Then he stopped, and smiled sharply, his eyes bright and intelligent as he stared Robespierre down. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Robespierre offered up a smile, a slight tweak of his mouth that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He didn’t offer the man a seat, but the giant sat down anyway with a grunt of satisfaction. Then he thrust a meaty hand in Robespierre’s direction. “Georges Jacques Danton.”

“Robespierre.” Robespierre considered briefly offering up his full name, just to outdo this man, but he decided against it. Much better to be curt and to the point. He wasn’t in Paris to make friends. Although, he supposed, a political ally might come in handy. Gingerly he took the big man’s hand and shook it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, citoyen.”

Danton’s eyes never lost their look of sharp merriment. “Robespierre, huh? Camille’s told me about you. Little Maxime.”

“Citoyen Robespierre will do.” Robespierre cast a fleeting, icy glance at Desmoulins, who smiled sheepishly. Great, Robespierre thought. Here he was, trying his best to be respectful and polite, and Camille had to go ruining it with an embarrassing nickname. How many others had Camille brainwashed?

Robespierre let out an exasperated huff through his nose, then readjusted his glasses. Well, he was just going to have to make an extraordinary impression on people. “So, citoyen,” he said, turning his full attention to Danton, “we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the coming months, I suspect. It will be an honour to work with you, I’m sure.” 

Danton shot a look at Desmoulins, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. Desmoulins shrugged, and Robespierre had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. Perhaps it would be best to leave now, and save everyone the pain of an uncomfortable conversation. 

“Well,” he started, “it was a pleasure to meet you, citoyen. And to see you again, of course, Camille. Now, if you’ll excuse me -”

“OI!” Danton bellowed, interrupting Robespierre as he rose to leave, aiming the shout to a point behind Robespierre’s back. “Marat! C’mere!”

Behind him, Robespierre heard a frustrated sigh. Then a deep, biting voice, in a tone of obvious annoyance: “What?”

“You need to meet Camille’s friend.”

“Oh, I do, do I?” The speaker was at his shoulder now, and Robespierre turned, already preparing himself for a confrontation. He adjusted his glasses, looked down, and blinked.

The man beside him was short. That was the first thing Robespierre noticed, not without a guilty twinge of joy. As long as Robespierre could remember, he had been the shortest of his classmates, his fellow lawyers, and recently of the delegates for the Estates General. Yet Robespierre was nearly a head taller than this man. Steely grey eyes, glinting cruelly beneath the shocks of dark hair, fixed a burning gaze on Robespierre. The man’s mouth twitched, thin lips seemingly undecided between a smirk and a grimace, and Robespierre found himself filled with a vague sense of discomfort. It felt as though he were a patient on an examining table, a specimen under a microscope; something laid bare. And this man, whoever he was, was the one leading this dissection. 

The man turned his gaze to Danton, an eyebrow cocked in query, and Robespierre released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His shoulders were tense. 

“Well, Danton,” the man said, “introduce us.”

A broad smile creased Danton’s face. The scars on his malformed face gave him a significantly pig like look. He spread his hands expansively. “It’s Little Maxime!” 

Robespierre was once more placed on the chopping block. “Oh?”

“Yeah. You can hang around him whenever you want to feel less short.”

The man rolled his eyes impressively. “It’s always a size joke with you, isn’t it Danton? We’re already incredibly aware how impressively large you are.” 

“Besides,” Robespierre interrupted, “height is not an accurate judge of character.”

The man let out a sharp, cackling laugh. Turning, with a sardonic smile that made Robespierre bristle: “We’re not just talking about height.”

“At least,” Danton added significantly, “not in the fully conventional sense.”

Robespierre’s brows creased in consternation, his lips parted in question. Then Desmoulins snorted into his hand, and clarity dawned. Robespierre flushed deeply and scowled. Of course that was what they meant. Trust Camille to befriend those who were least professional. 

“So,” the short man spoke languidly, the curl of his lips marking obvious enjoyment at Robespierre’s discomfort, “Little Maxime.” 

“Not in that sense,” Robespierre snapped back, at which Desmoulins and Danton broke into rather undignified giggles. Robespierre would, he decided, murder them for this later. “Maximilien Robespierre, if you please.”

“Jean-Paul Marat. L’ami du peuple. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

Marat did not offer his hand, and Robespierre did not correct this breach of etiquette. 

“I can’t say I have.” This was neither confirmation nor denial. Robespierre had, in fact, heard of the Friend of the People, but he was loath to grant this man that victory. “I make a point of not reading inflammatory propaganda.”

Marat’s mouth twisted into a smirk, but his dark gaze stayed drilled into Robespierre, unflinching. “Hmmm.”

Robespierre held his stare, green eyes to grey, unwilling to be the first to look away. There was a judgemental calculation to Marat’s look; something hawk-like, predatory. A look that chilled the sweat on Robespierre’s forehead, and sent a shiver down his spine. Yet, there was something intriguing about Marat, an inescapable magnetic pull, an influence he inflicted on all those around him. Robespierre decided that this was a man he intensely disliked. 

This conclusion gave Robespierre new resolve. He straightened his shoulders, standing just the slightest bit taller in his buckled black shoes, and charging his stare with a cool, indifferent impatience. Marat’s smirk widened even as his eyes narrowed. 

Desmoulins coughed uncomfortably. “Perhaps we should all sit down…?”

Marat gestured grandly to Robespierre’s empty chair. “Ladies first.”

Danton guffawed, and cold anger sluiced through Robespierre’s veins. “Of course,” he said, gracefully offering the chair. “Please, don’t let me stop you.”

Now Desmoulins was also laughing. Marat pointedly took a different chair, eyes sparkling. Robespierre sat down awkwardly: he did not want to converse with Camille’s friends. He wanted to go back to his apartment, to take Brount out for a walk, to be by himself. But he should probably try to ingratiate himself with these people - one did not want to muck about in politics without allies. For the time being, these men would have to do. 

Robespierre sighed inwardly, resigning himself to the conversation.

The ride from Paris to Versaille had been tedious. Marat had been hoping to work on the way. It was, after all, a long ride, usually four hours by carriage but made longer by the rain and muck. But the bumping of the carriage had resulted in more ink spilled on the author than his paper and had turned his usually elegant penmanship into illegible garbage. This lit the fuse of both Marat’s quickly shortening temper and a vulgar string of cursing. His fellow travelers, men he had not bothered to learn the names of, had watched in growing agitation until one had finally suggested that Marat leave his work alone. Consequently, the honour of the perpetrator’s mother was called into question, which had started a brief but volatile shouting match. Finally, all three men had settled into a stormy silence. 

Stepping from the ratty carriage, Marat breathed a sigh of relief. He was tired, frustrated, and thoroughly splattered with ink. His shoulders were stiff. His legs were jello-y. On top of that, his bottom felt like a bruised pin-cushion. But he had arrived. 

With quick steps, Marat set off towards the palace. 

Five weeks. Marat’s hair was falling into his eyes. He pushed it back irritably, blinking, trying to focus. Five weeks of politics, unforeseeable, revolutionary politics. When he had been elected to the Estates General he never thought it would go this far. The National Assembly. He still didn’t quite believe it. He supported it, of course. Finally, recognition for the lower class (he hoped), but it was still hard to believe. Five weeks.

Marat stared at the paper in front of him. It was still largely blank. Words - where were the words? Marat ground his teeth, hissing out a breath. Danton’s snores grated against his eardrums. The giant had fallen asleep a while back, head resting against his crossed arms. His wig was askew. Drunk. 

“Some days, I find it hard to believe that you’re a successful lawyer,” Marat grumbled, kicking Danton’s leg under the table. Danton didn’t react. Some help he was. To be fair, most of their nights recently had been late ones, what with the changes of government and the fucking Constitution, of which there were vastly differing opinions. Marat sighed and rubbed his eyes. Danton had promised to help him fashion a statement about the importance of government accountability, but it had been three hours and Danton was asleep and Marat kept drawing blanks. As much as he hated to admit it, he was in desperate need of sleep himself. Plus his coffee had gone cold. 

Danton snored again. Fuck this, he needed quiet. Carefully, Marat gathered up his supplies, downed his last drops of coffee, and went looking for a new booth. The hotel cafe he was in had been abducted by representatives of the Third Estate on their arrival at Versailles, and the innkeeper was happy to give them free reign provided they all prayed up. As such, the cafe was packed, with many of the representatives having followed Danton’s lead. 

Marat wove his way to the back of the cafe, where one booth had been left mercifully unoccupied. This was likely due to the architectural default that had placed it somewhat beneath the stairs, thus hiding it from both the windows and the bar. Perfect. Marat stacked his writing utensils neatly upon the table, then went back to the bar to refill his cup. 

Evening really was getting on. Through the large windows, the sprawling summer sky was streaked with the bloody gashes of oncoming dusk. 

Fresh coffee in hand, Marat pushed his way back to the table. Then he stopped. There was someone else sitting at the table, half hidden under the stairs. And they were fanning through his work. 

“I hate to be a bother, but this table is taken,” Marat snapped. “Or was that not made abundantly clear by the papers you’re so carelessly perusing?”

Maximilien Robespierre pinched his nose, sighed, and looked up. “Apologies, citoyen, but it was the only spot that seemed reasonably secluded and I was hoping for some quiet. ”

“Which obviously makes it alright to stick your nose into my writing, eh Little Maxime?”

“Don’t.” Robespierre pushed the papers distastefully away. “I didn’t realize they were yours; I noticed it was about the Constitution and thought it might be beneficial to read. Not that there’s much here….”

Icily, slowly, with more calm than he actually felt, Marat seated himself in the booth. To Robespierre, turning with a snakelike smile: “Well then cheri why don’t you help me fill this page, yes?” Or he could go stick his glasses up his arse for all Marat cared. 

Robespierre recoiled slightly, and Marat sneered, then turned back to his writing. He reread what he had written, rubbed at his eyes, and did it again. No, no, no, no, this was no good. Marat scrapped his fingers along his skull, pulling his hair tight in his fists. Shit, shit, shit. He groaned and, cursing, he dragged his quill across the words.

“What are you doing?” Robespierre snatched the quill from Marat’s hand. “That is an excellent, compelling speech - or at least a good beginning. You cannot scratch that out!”

“It’s my writing,” Marat growled, nerves frayed to snapping, “and it’s shit.” He began to crumble the paper, but Robespierre grabbed his wrist. His grasp was cool and surprisingly strong for someone so obviously unacquainted with manual labour. 

“It’s short,” Robespierre said. “It only seems like shit because you haven’t elaborated on your thoughts.”

“Yes, because my thoughts are an unintelligible dung heap, so give me back my quill and kindly fuck off!” Marat attempted to yank his hand away, but Robespierre hung on. He slammed Marat’s wrist back to the table, sending a jolt of pain up Marat’s arm. Marat opened his mouth, ready to let loose a string of expletives. 

“Give me that,” Robespierre snapped, trading Marat’s wrist for his paper. He re-situated his glasses on his nose, eyes scanning the paper, bouncing Marat’s quill against his lips. 

“Good rhetoric, let’s extend this, need to draw people in just a bit more,” Robespierre muttered, words fluttering against the feather. “Maybe….” He scribbled at the paper, the quill merely denting it. “Ink please, citoyen.” 

Wordlessly, Marat handed it over. There was something fascinating about watching Robespierre write. His entire face was transformed: brow relaxed, eyes focused, lips pursing and parting as he thought. His body sang with concentration. Carefully, in his tight controlled writing, Robespierre scratched his way down the page, pausing every so often to readjust his glasses and read over what he had written. When he had filled all but a quarter of the page he leaned back and pushed the page over to Marat. 

“There. How’s that?”

Marat, sighing inwardly, took up the page. Despite his cramped style, Robespierre wrote well. He glanced at the other man, expecting to see smugness, but Robespierre’s expression was controlled, almost blank. 

“Good,” Marat assented begrudgingly, and the corners of Robespierre’s mouth twitched. “Now to elaborate.” He took the quill back, put it to the paper, and paused. How was he supposed to follow this up? And with Robespierre watching? 

Normally, the proximity of other people had no effect on Marat. He could collaborate. He could work alone. He could string words together indefinitely if he wanted to, with people breathing down his back as he did it. But there was something different about Robespierre’s intrusion. He had actively inserted himself between Marat and his writing, had added his own views, and the problem was that Marat liked them. He liked the way Robespierre corralled words together, actually found the input useful as opposed to the ignorant comments he was usually berated with. Here was a man equally skilled with words, and that, in Marat’s eyes, lent weight to his judgement. He wrote well, and utilizing those skills would definitely help promote Marat’s cause. But he was loath to ask for help, loath to admit he needed it. Maybe if it had been anyone else, anyone less obviously self-important…. 

Marat rubbed at his temples, skimming the document again. He could feel Robespierre’s eyes on him, tracing him, weighing him up. Write something, Marat chided himself. Anything.

Slowly, pen to paper, fighting for concentration, Marat thoughts started their scrawling journey. One sentence, two. He wasn’t looking, but he knew Robespierre was reading over his shoulder. The other man was practically vibrating, and despite his self-possession Marat could feel the inescapable urge of Robespierre to interrupt. Ignore him: just write. Then Marat blanked, and he could feel Robespierre positively panting beside him. 

Resigned: “Alright, I know you have suggestions.”

“A few, yes. Have you considered….”

And Robespierre pulled the speech closer, hunched over the page, offering edits and ideas under his breath. Pen to paper, pen to his lips, back to the paper again, before tilting the page back to Marat. “What’s the next argument?”

And so it went, passing the quill back and forth, heads bent together over the page, so close that Marat had to stop himself from sneezing on the powder from Robespierre’s wig. Robespierre’s input was quiet, unobtrusive, until he got excited; then he would snatch the pen back from Marat, staining their fingers, and breathlessly narrate as he wrote, voice reedy, eyes glittering. It surprised Marat: Robespierre had seemed so self-possessed, so cold; to be privy to these displays of unobstructed passion was strangely intimate. At times, overwhelmed with enthusiasm, Robespierre would lose himself in the writing, head bent so low as to almost touch the page, lips moving wordlessly as he wrote. There were, Marat noticed, small pox scars scattered across Robespierre’s face, and, almost imperceptible in the dim light, freckles. That was a strangely pleasant, if unexpected, surprise. Marat’s eyes drifted, examining Robespierre’s profile: high forehead, straight nose, petite mouth. Robespierre paused, tongue poking between his lips, considering. He was surprisingly cute beneath the stern exterior and posh attire. 

Robespierre rubbed his eyes, and Marat blinked, shaking his head, resurfacing. What…? 

“Alright,” said Robespierre. “Almost finished.” He yawned delicately, glancing to the far off windows. The sky outside was black, the cafe now only dimly lit by a few flickering candles. 

“I’ll finish it,” Marat said, a bit more forcefully than intended. Quieter, he added, “Get some rest.”

“Are you sure? What about yourself? You’re presenting this tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“I’ve survived for longer periods than this with less sleep, cheri.” Marat smiled, less sardonically than he had hoped. Robespierre looked unconvinced. “Look, we can work in shifts. Rest here, and if I haven’t finished in an hour I’ll wake you up. Then you write for an hour while I sleep.”

“Fine.” Robespierre carefully removed his wig and glasses, placing them gently on the table. Then he leaned back against the booth. His hair glinted auburn in the sparse candle light. “Ensure those aren’t taken.”

“Of course.”

Robespierre closed his eyes. It was strange to see him with unpowdered hair. Not that Marat could make much out in the deeply shadowed corner. Still, Robespierre was softened: less austere, more human. Focus, Marat chided himself. He was just tired, that was all. Finish this, that was the goal. Then he could rest. Summoning all the energy he had left, Marat set to work.

Robespierre woke slowly, face squashed into a cranny. Something smooth and warm: probably the booth. His lips tickled the surface with each breath. How long had he been sleeping? 

Robespierre groaned, pressing his face deeper into the warm leather. A laugh, then words that vibrated against Robespierre’s cheek: “Restful sleep?”

Robespierre’s eyes shot open and he sat bolt upright, knocking his forehead into Marat’s chin. Marat rubbed the spot reproachfully, lips twisted into a smirk and eyes narrowed - suggestive and probing. “Ow.”

“Why-,” Robespierre blustered, flushed. Then he whispered aggressively, “Why didn’t you wake me up sooner. I would have moved.”

Marat shrugged, smiling. There were pink pressure marks on Marat’s skin, visible through the loose open collar of his shirt, from where Robespierre’s face had been mashed against his neck. “I finished the speech. Besides, I thought you could use the rest.”

Robespierre stared at him, incredulous. This was Marat? Marat was a predator, a politician, a force of nature. He wouldn’t let someone sleep on him, least of all someone he actively disliked. Although, Robespierre admitted as he watched Marat cleanly stack the papers of their speech, they had worked fairly well together last night. 

“What about you?” Robespierre inquired desperately. He felt peculiarly out of his element.

Marat grinned. “Dozed.”

“And was I..?” Robespierre trailed off. What was he trying to say? Did it even matter? 

“You were still upright when I drifted off.” Marat’s eyes met his, a mischievous twinkle in the grey gaze. “I only woke up using your head as a pillow. I might have mussed up your hair.” 

Robespierre quickly untied his hair, combing it out with his fingers. Marat was watching him, his expression unreadable. 

“Do up your shirt,” Robespierre snapped, quickly tying off his hair. He could feel the heat rising to his face as Marat laughed, re-situating his shirt about his shoulders. 

Fuck, Robespierre thought. What was wrong with him this morning? He was never this discomposed. Robespierre leaned over to pull up his stockings, which had fallen about his ankles as he slept, using it as an excuse to hide his deeply blushing face. Stupid Marat. Stupid Marat and his unexpected acts of kindness. Robespierre would rather Marat had sworn at him again. Unpleasantness he could handle. 

Marat was reading through their speech as Robespierre finished re-situating his wig on his head. He had no mirror, and his glasses weren’t reflective enough to act as one. Robespierre sighed.

“Marat. Is this on correctly?”

Marat glanced up, eyes skimming over Robespierre’s face. “I’ll never understand the lot of you that insist on wearing these things. They’re just a pain.”

“They give one an air of professionalism.”

Marat snorted. “The air of a snob, maybe. Besides, your hair is nice enough on its own. But if you insist on covering it….” Marat reached up, tucking the reddish strands that had escaped back under Robespierre’s wig, carefully readjusting it on the other’s head. His touch was surprisingly gentle, and Robespierre had to fight the urge to recoil, grasping tightly at the pieces of his composure he’d managed to pull back together. “There. That’s… fairly straight.”

Robespierre swatted Marat’s hands away. “Does the speech read just as well this morning?”

“It’s excellent.” 

“Good.” Robespierre stood swiftly. “I look forward to hearing it. Au revoir, citoyen.”

And he left, heels clicking briskly across the floor. Away from Marat, with his smirking mouth and cruel words and gentle hands. Away from the knowing look in his eyes. 

Back straight, head aloft, Robespierre walked out the door. He didn’t look back.

It was raining. Heavy droplets beat down, pummeling the pavement and the men on it. Robespierre groaned inwardly, hunching into himself and pulling his coat tighter about his shoulders. It was new, a blue and white striped thing, well cut and form fitting: he was quite proud of it. Now, however, he regretted wearing it.

“My place is close by,” Danton raised his voice over the ever thickening rain. “Come on!”

Robespierre groaned again. He did not want to go to Danton’s house. He had already put up with the rather impolite conversation of Danton, Marat and Desmoulins over dinner. Desmoulins had hosted: he had wanted to introduce (and show off) his finance, Lucile. She seemed like a nice girl, Robespierre had decided. Camille was happy. She was kind, devoted, and he supposed she was pretty. He’d never been one to judge women on their looks.

The rain beat down, curtaining off the farther part of the street. Robespierre’s glasses were streaked with droplets. What he really wanted to do was go to his own house, change out of his wet clothes, and read. Unfortunately, Robespierre’s house was a good ways away, and with the rain spotting his glasses his vision was becoming increasingly diminished. Robespierre sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable. He hated the rain.

Danton hadn’t lied; his house was very close. For this, Robespierre was thankful. Danton ushered the other men through the door, shutting it firmly behind him. “Gabrielle!” he bellowed. 

Robespierre wiped his glasses on his cravat, which only marginally managed to clear them. His clothes were soaked through, hanging heavily off of his slim frame. It was very uncomfortable. 

“Gabrielle!” Danton bellowed again, throwing his jacket onto the ground. “We have guests!”

Marat snorted, shivering. “Are we just going to keep standing here, or….”

A door near the end of the hall opened, and a plump woman with curly, dark hair bustled out. “Stop your yacking, Georges, I heard you the first time.”

“Ah!” Danton swept the woman into a passionate embrace, kissing her soundly on the lips. Marat snorted again and Robespierre averted his gaze. 

“Georges Jacques!” The woman, Gabrielle, extricated herself from her husband’s grasp. “Stop, you’re going to get me wet! My goodness, that storm has you all completely soaked.”

“It caught us by surprise, I’m afraid.” Danton pressed another kiss into his wife’s temple. She swatted him.

“Not in front of the guests. Alright, off with your shoes, I’ve got a fire going.” 

Gabrielle led the way back to the room she had excited; a large living room lined with bookshelves, comfortable chairs and a sofa situated before a roaring fire. “You two,” she said, turning to Marat and Robespierre, “can stay here. Georges, your room. Go grab some of your shirts.”

Danton fake pouted, but did as he was told, kissing his wife once more on the head. 

“Merci beaucoup, Citoyenne Danton,” Robespierre’s teeth were chattering. 

Gabrielle laughed. “Citoyen Robespierre, I presume? Georges has spoken of you. And I know Jean-Paul already.” Marat grunted assent. “Well, I’ll leave you two to undress.”

Undress? Robespierre thought. Undress into what? Did these people expect him to walk around naked?

“Here.” Danton was back. He pushed two loosely folded shirts into Robespierre’s arms. “Borrow these. Hang your clothes on the chairs. Now darling,” turning back to Gabrielle, “why don’t you help me rid myself of these garments.”

“Well.” Marat strode towards the fire, pulling off his jacket as he did so. “I think we both know what they’re really getting up to.”

Robespierre blanched. “Not while they have guests, surely.” Carefully, he removed his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. “That would be -”

“Trust me, you don’t know Danton like I do.” 

Robespierre sighed. Now, more than ever, he didn’t want to be here. There was a small table at the back of a room, and Robespierre crossed to it, taking off his wig. It had become matted in the rain, the powder sticking to his fingers and clumping slightly in the hair. Great. 

Having relieved himself of these two garments, Robespierre crossed back to the fireplace. It was large, stone, and a pleasant heat was emanating from it. Robespierre sighed, rubbing at his arms for warmth. His teeth were still chattering.

“If you want to actually warm up you should really remove your clothes.” Marat’s voice, muffled. 

“I’d rather not.”

“Rather not warm up, or rather not remove your clothes?”

“My clothes,” Robespierre snapped. Obviously. “I am warming up. No need to be indecent.” 

Marat snorted, and moved to stand besides the other man. “I get the sense that being decent means a lot to you.”

“When one’s a politician, one can’t afford to be otherwise.”

“Or when one’s vain.” 

Robespierre’s gaze snapped to Marat, anger arcing through his stare. How dare this man imply such a thing. How dare - 

Marat smirked back, obviously unfazed. He’d removed all but his undergarments: thin cotton shorts which in their semi-soaked state failed rather spectacularly in their role of concealment. His shoulders were broad, relaxed; his skin rough, pulled tight about the angles of his body. Robespierre could make out the shape of his ribs, an indent at his sternum, the muscles in his arms as they hung at his sides. Marat was painted gold by the firelight; it glinted off his sopping hair and the little beads of water that decorated his torso. 

Robespierre flicked his gaze away, praying that the firelight masked his flushing cheeks. “I’m not vain.”

Marat sighed deeply, stretching his arms up above his head. “Suit yourself. I’d advise changing if you don’t want to catch a cold.” 

“I won’t catch a cold!”

“With your weak constitution? I doubt that.”

“Fine!” Robespierre snapped. “I’ll change! Are you happy you pervert?”

Marat gave him a cool stare. “I’m not going to watch you.” 

Robespierre huffed, turning away. “How do you even know if I have a weak constitution?” he asked, untying his cravat. Good lord, changing in front of another man felt so wrong.

“I’m a doctor. Or… used to be. I notice these things.”

Robespierre shot him a look. A doctor? Marat didn’t look like a doctor. Although, Robespierre supposed, he wasn’t sure there was a specific way doctors were supposed to look. Marat was still facing the fire, back to Robespierre. Robespierre studied him. He hadn’t realized just how much there was about his fellow revolutionaries he didn’t know. 

“A doctor?”

“Mm.” Marat didn’t elaborate. “Also Camille told me. You used to get sick a lot in school.” The smile in his voice was evident.

Robespierre sighed. Of course, trust Camille to share only the most embarrassing things. Hopefully not… well, Robespierre desperately hoped there were some things Camille had kept quiet. Camille and himself really needed to have a stern conversation.

The shirt Danton had left him was soft cotton, oversized, quite obviously a night shirt. It fell past Robespierre knees, gaping slightly about the neckline. Robespierre clutched the shirt closed, self-conscious. The dry cloth was a welcome change against his skin, but he decided to leave his undergarments on despite their dampness. He wasn’t that desperate.

A knock at the door. 

“Is everyone decent?” Danton bellowed.

Robespierre pulled the shirt tighter about him, aware of how naked his legs were. Of all the ways to destroy his political standing in the eyes of his allies, this had to be one of the most embarrassing. 

“Not by Citoyen Robespierre’s standards, but you won’t see anything!” Marat flashed Robespierre a sporting smile. Robespierre frowned back. Marat had put on the other shirt, and Robespierre was flooded with a strange sense of relief. 

“Well,” Danton said as he opened the door, “don’t you both look like princesses.”

“We look like pimps.” Danton’s shirts fit Marat even worse than they did Robespierre. Hanging halfway down his calves the shirt completely dwarfed the other man, and Robespierre had to admit it did look rather like Marat was wearing a dress, if a badly tailored one. Marat pulled the loose fabric tight about his waist and twirled sarcastically. “Never seen a prettier woman, eh Danton? All the men will come running the moment I set up shop.”

Danton laughed. “Now, Marat, you know I can’t confirm that. I’m a married man.”

“Fine.” Marat turned to Robespierre, raising an eyebrow as he caught the other’s gaze. “I’m the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen, yes?”

Robespierre faltered, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I *hem* don’t really have an opinion on this matter-”

“Try to stop staring, cheri. You’re ruining your argument.”

Danton burst out laughing, and Robespierre turned away, furious. He hadn’t been staring. Not intentionally. 

“I don’t see why I am the deciding factor. I have never visited… those sorts of services. They are best avoided as a course of habit.”

“Well,” Danton glanced out the door, “I would argue against you on that point, but it must wait until a time when my wife is not near.”

“Surely you don’t… as a married man! That’s-” 

Danton raised a finger to his lips, his eyes jovial. “Come, princesses, my wife put the kettle on as you were getting changed. Let’s get some heat in our bellies now, yes?”

Robespierre trailed unhappily behind as Danton led the way to the kitchen. He felt like a bedraggled puppy. Or perhaps a goose. Something small, gangly and out of place.

The tea was comforting at least. Robespierre refused Danton’s offer of liquor, which the big man happily poured out for himself. Marat also refused, settling instead for a cup of dark coffee which Gabrielle had prepared without asking for his preference. 

“You better treat this woman right, Georges Jacques,” Marat said, inhaling the coffee fumes, “she’s an angel on this godforsaken earth.”

To which Gabrielle coloured pleasantly, and Danton replied, “Don’t I know it!” 

“Oh, Jean-Paul, you sweetie. You’re making me blush.” Gabrielle slapped Marat playfully on the arm. 

Marat must have been a fairly frequent visitor, Robespierre thought. They all seemed on good terms. He cupped his mug of tea tighter in his hands, hunching into himself. The sooner his clothes dried, the better. Robespierre would even settle for damp clothes provided that the rain stopped. Whichever got him back to his own place faster. In the meantime he would accept Danton’s hospitality and halfheartedly try to engage in the conversation.

It was with great relief, and more than a little bit of urgency, that Robespierre redressed himself an hour later. The rain had died down to a mere drizzle. His clothes still clung uncomfortably to his body, but it would have to do. A quick thank you to Citoyenne Danton and he was out the door, heels clicking briskly on the wet cobbles as he hurried away. 

It was not a convenient place. Usually, Robespierre was grateful for the long walk, as it provided adequate time to collect his thoughts and rehearse his speeches. Tonight, however, he began to question whether it would in fact be wiser to find a closer residence. 

Two hours later, Robespierre sat before the fire he had coaxed into being, book in hand. Despite the small size of the living room it was rather drafty. Robespierre shivered, shifting in his chair. He’d started a fire going in his bedroom as well, but there was only space for a bed and a small desk. If he wanted a comfortable reading chair he would have to put up with the drafts. 

There was a knock at the door. Robespierre glanced up, surprised. The sky was dark outside, rain still pattering down over the city. Who would be making a house call at this hour?

Cautiously, pulling his house coat tighter about himself for warmth, Robespierre cracked open the door. 

“Marat?”

“Oh, good, I got the house right.”

Robespierre stared down at the older man, incredulous. “What are you doing here? Do you know how late it is?”

Marat shrugged, thrusting something out before him. “You forgot your wig. Thought you might want it, what with being decent and all.” 

Robespierre accepted the wig. It was matted, damp, and he could already tell that there were knots that would have to be worked out. Still, it was his only wig at the moment. “You could have… you could have just dropped it off in the morning.”

Marat shrugged again. A strained silence fell between the two men. Robespierre fumbled, lost for words. He was confused. How was he supposed to respond to this sort of random kindness? And why was Marat the one performing it? 

“I thought,” Robespierre blurted, before he could stop his mouth, “I thought you disliked me.”

Marat blinked up at him, strands of hair catching in his eyes. “What gave you that impression?”

“You’re not exactly friendly.”

Marat chuckled. He met Robespierre’s gaze, eyes piercing. “Neither are you.”

“I suppose.” 

Marat tilted his head, giving Robespierre a quizzical stare. His mouth, so expressive, was once again twisted, part smile, part frown. Robespierre held his gaze: he wasn’t sure he could look away even if he wanted to. 

“Well,” Marat said. He coughed. “This was fun. Best go back inside if you don’t want to catch a cold.” 

Marat spun on his heels, about to start off down the street, when a crack of lightning split the sky in two. Both men jumped, startled, as thunder boomed overhead. Marat swore. 

“Oh, for-!”

“Get inside,” Robespierre ordered. “Quickly.”

Marat hurriedly complied as the rain began to beat down again, and Robespierre slammed the door behind him. The two men stood quietly for a moment, listening to the storm rage outside.

Marat coughed again. “This fucking weather. I swear it's out to keep me from my own home. Camille’s house, Danton’s, yours. Who knows? Perhaps next I’ll be rooming with the King.”

Robespierre smiled faintly. “I doubt that.” He moved about the room mechanically, searching for things to tidy, anything to relieve the frenetic energy in his fingertips. “You may as well remove your jacket and shoes. Who knows how long the rain will last.”

Thunder boomed again and Robespierre shivered. From the sounds of it, this storm could last the night. He cast a sidelong glance at Marat. The other man had removed his shoes and was standing awkwardly by the door, coat draped across his arm. Uncertain. In that moment, he looked smaller than Robespierre had ever seen him. It was incredibly disconcerting.

“You don’t have to keep standing there.”

“Right, yes.” Marat shook his head. He walked over to the fire, and Robespierre was filled with a sense of deja vu. “I hate having to impose on your hospitality.”

“You’re not imposing; I told you to come in.” 

“It’s an inconvenience.”

“It’s fine,” Robespierre snapped, before another peal of thunder echoed through the room. 

“Very well.” Marat draped his jacket over Robespierre’s chair. “Do I get a house tour?”

“Main room.” Robespierre gestured at the room around them. “Bathroom.” He pointed to the corresponding door. “My bedroom and work place.” 

“Convenient.”

Robespierre sighed, opening his bedroom door and carefully depositing his wig inside. In the light, the damage to it looked even worse. Robespierre sighed again. He’d worry about that tomorrow. 

Marat was standing by the solitary bookshelf when Robespierre came out. He’d pulled out a book and was skimming through it. His fingers, Robespierre noticed, were long and delicate, stained slightly with ink; he had a habit of tracing his fingertips along the edge of each page as he read. 

Robespierre coughed and Marat glanced up. “I hope you don’t mind me perusing . You have a great collection, and even some titles I haven’t seen before. Excellent taste.”

A twinge of pleasure coursed up Robespierre spine. “Of course,” he said. “I could lend a few to you, if you wish.”

“I might very well take you up on that.”

“Perhaps we should figure out sleeping arrangements.”

Marat’s gaze snapped sharply over to Robespierre. “What?”

“For….” Robespierre self consciously readjusted his glasses. “For tonight. I doubt the rain will let up soon.”

“Oh. Right. I suppose not.” Marat tucked the book back onto the shelf, and Robespierre swore he saw the other man flush. 

“As the guest, you should have the bed.”

“And where will you sleep?”

“On one of these chairs.”

Marat shook his head. “I can’t push you out of your bed. I’ll take the chair. I’m an early riser anyway.”

“I insist.”

“This room is much too drafty. It will be cold and uncomfortable.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I suppose….” Marat hesitated, then cast Robespierre a strangely flirtatious look. “I suppose we could share the bed.”

Robespierre’s body tightened, pulled in two directions at once. He felt as though he’d just been shocked by an electric current. His face seemed unsure whether to blanch or blush at the outrageous suggestion, and instead settled for a wild combination of both. His voice, when he tried to talk, had to be practically scraped from his vocal chords.

“NO,” Robespierre choked out. “I’ll take a chair.” He cleared his throat. “That’s final.”

Marat shrugged, relenting. “Alright, well, it’s an option if you get cold.”

“I already said I’ll be fine.”

There was a spare blanket in his bedroom for the chilly winter months. Robespierre wrapped himself in it, settling into a chair. Marat had hesitated in the doorway, opened his mouth then closed it again, and finally had crossed into Robespierre’s bedroom without a word. Robespierre hoped Marat wasn’t going through his things. Perhaps he should have taken up Marat’s offer to give him the bed. Even to share it.

No. No, Robespierre would not be sharing a bed. The mere thought sent a serpent of, well, something down his spine. Disgust, or fear, or nervousness; whatever it was exactly Robespierre wasn’t sure. Not that it was necessarily wrong. Boys would share beds at times during school, especially during the colder months. For warmth. Mostly. Robespierre himself had shared his bed on a few occasions, mostly with Camille, who would creep in during the night uninvited, although Robespierre had been thankful for the added heat. But still, it was different when one was a man. Boys, well, boys would be boys, but for a grown man…. People would talk. And gossip could ruin a man’s whole career.

Robespierre shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. He wasn’t used to sleeping upright. There wasn’t a satisfactory way to rest his head. The blanket refused to cover all of him, and his shoulders were getting sore. And what was he supposed to do with his legs? Did he curl up like a kitten, or leave them extended? Robespierre huffed, frustrated. Every time he shuffled around more heat was lost. And it was quite drafty. The rain was hammering even harder than before, and the sound of it made Robespierre cold. His fire was dwindling, hot embers that barely illuminated the room now. 

Robespierre sighed and stood up, wrapping the blanket tightly about him. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep like this. Perhaps he could quietly sneak into his room and bring some of his work out here. Then at least he’d have something to focus on besides the cold. 

Robespierre crept to the door, and opened it slowly, careful not to make a noise. It was dark inside, the fire in this room having mostly extinguished itself. It cast a faint glow onto the ground. Marat had closed the blinds, and Robespierre had to strain his eyes to make out the outline of his bed and desk. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and walked softly towards his desk. It’s drawer squeaked as he opened it, and Robespierre cursed under his breath. Fumbling, he grabbed his topmost papers, turned hurriedly to exit, tripped over the blanket and promptly fell flat on his face. 

In the bed, Marat shuffled. “... Robespierre?”

“Fuck, I’m fine, go back to sleep.”

“What,” Marat’s voice was muffled with sleep. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t sleep, so I’m going to work. Fuck this blanket, where is the end of it?”

Marat sat up further in the bed, and Robespierre could just make out the outlines of his body. “I would never have expected you to have such a foul mouth.” 

“Shut up and sleep.”

Robespierre struggled in the blankets, cursing. He heard Marat sigh. Then the other man was leaning over him, untangling Robespierre’s legs. 

Robespierre kicked the blanket away. His papers were strewn across the floor, and he struggled to collect them. Marat’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Leave it for the morning.”

“Get back in the fucking bed.”

Marat groaned. “Get into bed yourself.”

“We are not. Sharing. A bed.” Robespierre stood up, ignoring Marat’s proffered hand, and yanked the blanket to his chest. A paper crumpled beneath his foot and Robespierre swore again. 

“Robespierre.” 

“What?!”

Marat huffed through his nose. “Just get in the fucking bed.”

“Fine!” Robespierre snapped.

With exaggerated force, he flung himself down on the bed, pulling the blankets tight under his chin. From the foot of the bed he heard Marat sigh. The other man fumbled around. A breeze wafted against Robespierre’s face as Marat fluffed out the second blanket, laying it to rest on the first. The weight settled about him, a cocoon, comforting. Then the bed shifted slightly as Marat climbed in beside him. 

Robespierre stiffened, holding his body as close to the edge as was physically possible. He hated Marat’s proximity. Hated the thought of bumping against another person as he slept. Sleeping should be a solitary endeavor, an escape from the constant human presence of daily living. 

Robespierre pressed his body into the mattress, trying to ignore the presence of the man behind him. It was incredibly difficult. For one, he could hear Marat’s tired breathing, each shift of his body against the sheets. There was a gap between them where the blankets were stretched between their shoulders, and breaths of cold air tickled Robespierre’s back, between his shoulder blades. If he had been alone in the bed the blankets would have compressed around him and kept out the chill. But there was the second matter - heat. Marat was warm. Even without touching him, Robespierre could feel the heat emanating off the other man. The type of heat that could only be generated by another living body. And try as he might, this warmth was impossible to ignore.

Marat turned in the bed, and Robespierre hissed at the sudden bout of cold. Who knew sharing a bed could be such a travail? 

He heard Marat sigh, a deep release of breath from the very center of his being. “Robespierre….”

“What?”

Marat paused, then shook his head, rustling the pillows. “Never mind. Get some sleep.”

“Stop talking then.”

Marat huffed, but there was humour in it. “Goodnight, citoyen.”

Robespierre remained stiffly perched on the edge of the bed as Marat’s breaths lengthened. He really should try to sleep. Relax. His eyes were growing heavy, weighted. 

Sighing, Robespierre turned onto his back, careful to limit the amount of air let under the covers. His arm brushed against Marat’s, and Robespierre jerked back, nearly spilling from the bed. 

Relax, Robespierre chided himself. Marat was asleep. He wouldn’t feel anything. Breathing deeply to calm his racing heart, Robespierre lay back, clutching his arms tightly against his chest. His skin tingled from where Marat’s arm had brushed it. Even through his nightshirt, Robespierre could tell the other man’s arm was bare. He really should have offered Marat the use of a shirt. 

Robespierre breathed out stiffly through his nose. This, he promised himself, would be the only time he and Marat shared a bed. 

Robespierre’s eyes blinked open. His vision was blurry, sleep fuzzed. The room was still dark, only the barest crack of light showing beneath the blinds. Robespierre rubbed at his eyes, his brain muddled. Normally the sun woke him, or the sounds of the first citizens up and about. It was still much too early; something else must have woken him. 

Robespierre sat up, brushing the caked specks of sleep away from his eyelashes and off of his cheeks. The bed beside him was empty. For a moment, Robespierre forgot why it should be otherwise. The weight of the blankets reminded him.

“Marat?”

The bed beside him was still warm. Robespierre squinted into the dim room, re-situating his glasses onto his nose. He swung his legs from the bed, crossing to the door with quick strides. 

“Marat.”

Marat turned at the sound of Robespierre’s voice. He was only half dressed, presumably caught in the act. 

“Good morning.”

“You’re leaving already?”

Marat tugged his shirt down over his head. The sparse light in the room threw the crevices of his chest into stark relief; Robespierre was once again struck by the angularity of Marat’s body. He hoped he wasn’t staring. “I didn’t realize you wanted me to stay.” 

“Oh, I didn - it’s just so early.” Marat grinned at him, grey eyes twinkling mischievously in the predawn light, and Robespierre felt the spots of colour rising to his cheeks. He was suddenly thankful for the dimness.

“I told you I’m an early riser. Although I suppose it’s for the best that you’re awake, otherwise I’d have to leave your door unlocked.” 

“Oh,” Robespierre said. “Yes.” He yawned, raising a hand politely to his mouth.

Marat finished pulling on his clothes. He must have slept wearing nothing but his underclothes. The thought brought a deeper flush to Robespierre’s cheeks. He turned away, clearing his throat. The draft in the room raised goosebumps along his skin.

“Well,” Marat said. He stood, shifting slightly in the doorway. Then he said it again: “Well. Thank you for… your hospitality.” 

Robespierre nodded. Marat’s gaze skittered about the room once, then he turned slightly on his heel, hand planted firmly on the door knob. 

“Good day, citoyen.”

“Maximilien.” Robespierre wasn’t sure what made him say it. Perhaps it was the exhaustion dampening his inhibitions. Perhaps it was the fact they had shared a bed, an unexpected intimacy which still had Robespierre off his kilter. Perhaps it was the way Marat was softened in the dim light, the hard lines of his face smoothed out, his edges rounded as though painted by an artist's delicate hand. Whatever the case, the word had spilled from Robespierre’s lips before he could stop himself. He flushed.

Marat cocked his head, eyes dark and unreadable as he gazed into Robespierre’s face. “Pardon?”

“Maximilien.” Robespierre’s throat was dry. “It’s - you can….” 

He trailed off, clenching his hands firmly before him. What was he thinking? Robespierre coughed lightly. He wished he’d kept his mouth shut. What on earth did Marat think of him now? Cautiously, Robespierre raised his eyes. 

Marat met his gaze. A smile slid across his face, and he ducked his head, laughing slightly. Then Marat stuck out his hand.

“Maximilien.” Marat savoured the word; Robespierre could practically feel Marat tasting the name in his mouth, rounding each syllable carefully with his tongue before he let them fall. Robespierre shivered, but took Marat’s hand. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“It was my pleasure...”

“Sure it was.” Marat smiled wider, smug and knowing. “Have a good day, Maximilien.”

Robespierre nodded. It was all he felt able. Sleep was tugging once more at his eyes. 

Marat opened the door, stepping out onto the gradually brightening street. 

“You have a good day as well.” Robespierre spoke as Marat started on his way, unsure the other man heard him, “Jean-Paul.” 

Marat paused, almost imperceptibly, and glanced back. The look in his eyes was undecipherable, strange and almost… lonely. Then he was moving away again, with his usual rolling gait, a raised hand his final farewell. 

Robespierre watched him for a minute, then locked the door and returned to his bedroom, the comfort of the heavy blankets, the rescuing escape of sleep.

The air in Marat’s bathroom was stuffy, weighing upon his shoulders, a blanket of heat and moisture. He wiped at the sweat forming on his upper lip and pushed his damp bangs back under the head cloth he now wore almost constantly. Headaches, itching, soreness, pain. Pain was a constant, varying in intensity, but always stewing just beneath the surface. He’d never been particularly healthy. Weak constitution. Living in the dark and damp, the crowded and cramped certainly hadn’t helped matters. He was just glad to be back in his own home. Alive. Mostly intact. 

Marat trailed his fingers through the medicated water of his tub. This was his life now. A bathtub. A board for writing. A blanket for privacy. Some days were better. He hoped that soon he could resume his visits to the Jacobin club, and the Cordeliers, even the Convention. He would resume his visits, he would resume his role in the political workings of this country; it was only a question of when. For the moment he would have to be content in his role as the Friend of the People - giving the people his voice from the confines of a bathtub.

There was a knock at the door downstairs. Marat sat up, ears perked. Perhaps a visitor, a break in the monotony of the day. Voices, but no distinct words. 

His sister, Albertine, poked her head through the door. “Someone to see you.”

“Well, show them up.”

Albertine huffed grandly. “A please would be nice.”

“Just do it, Albertine.”

She stared at him a minute, scrunching up her nose. They had the same nose - prominent, aquiline: their father’s nose. “I’m not your servant, Jean-Paul.”

“I never said you were.”

“You treat me like one.”

Marat sighed heavily. “Will you please show this individual up and help relieve your poor, invalid brother of his boredom?”

“Fine.” Albertine turned on her heel. “But if you minded your manners you wouldn't be in this predicament.”

“What good do fucking manners do?” he yelled after her.

“Enjoy your fucking visitor! I’m leaving!” she yelled back. Then he heard her say, “Yeah, he’s upstairs. The twat,” before the lower door slammed.

Marat slumped lower into the tub, the lukewarm water a cooling relief over his bare shoulders. He tipped his head back, fingertips trailing through the water. It would be nice to be out of the house. To walk around in public, and hold conversations with large groups of people, to be asked to dinner, to wear fucking clothes. Marat raised a hand to his face, letting the water run rivulets over his countenance. He closed his eyes.

A tentative knock at the door. Marat didn’t raise his head. “The door is open.”

“Good afternoon, citoyen.” He knew that voice. He’d heard it sometimes, in the back of his mind, at those times when he’d had a chance to rest, a break from all the running and hiding. Speaking his name; the consonants given corners by the provincial accent. An open question. “How are you -”

Marat looked up. Maximilien Robespierre was standing at the foot of his tub, arms held awkwardly at his sides. His expression was of one who had just sex explained to them for the first time. A faint blush painted his cheeks, and his lips were parted, stopped mid-sentence. His was staring, wide eyed, his gaze skating over Marat’s face, bare shoulders, chest, down to the blanket and back. Comprehending and embarrassed. Robespierre coughed, turning his face sharply away, the blush on his cheeks deepening to a satisfying rouge. He pursed his lips, swallowed: “Uhm, how have you been?” His voice squeaked slightly at the end. 

Marat smirked. “As well as can be expected.” He sat up straighter in the tub, enjoying the way Robespierre’s gaze arched to him, was pulled forcefully away, and was inevitably drawn back. Poor man, you would think he’d never seen a nude human before. Then again, perhaps Robespierre really hadn’t. He did have the reputation of being incorruptible. Marat’s smirk widened. Are you as incorruptible as they say, cheri? A little virgin? Perhaps the Incorruptible has hopes of marrying a good woman, as any man should, and raising a family? No, Marat decided, there was a fear in Robespierre’s eyes as they bounced their way across his bare flesh. And yet he can’t look away. 

Marat waved a hand, gesturing Robespierre closer. Involuntarily, much against his obvious wishes, Robespierre obeyed. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

“Well,” Robespierre’s metallic voice was rusty, “I was hoping for your advice on some recent political dealings and… and….” He paused, blinked, flushed. Then, leaning closer, in a confidential whisper: “Do you usually greet people in the bath?”

Marat raised a single eyebrow, keeping his expression flat, unbothered. “Yes, I’m afraid I must.”

“But,” Robespierre faltered, licked his lips. God, it was so good to see him again, to rile him up, to lean close and fluster him and watch the tip of his tongue trail over his small, pink mouth. I could kiss you, Marat thought. It flitted unbidden into his mind. I could close this distance and kiss you, take your tongue in my mouth, throw your wig to the ground and run my hands through your hair. It would be the easiest thing in the world. Much easier than running from the law and hiding in sewers. “But aren’t you - isn’t it improper?”

Marat smiled, tight lipped. No, he wouldn’t kiss Citoyen Robespierre. To do so would be to call the law down on his head again. Robespierre was not the type of man to let an offense of any kind stand. “That’s what the blanket is for, cheri.”

Robespierre blinked, nodded. “Right.” He still looked unsettled. “Well, as I said before, I have business to discuss with you.” 

Business. Of course, there was always business. Well, no matter, business would have to be distraction enough. Marat pulled his writing board towards him, shuffling the papers. “Alright.”

“Wonderful. You see, the issue being discussed is whether or not to introduce a set price for the sale of bread. Now, I am not an economist, but I cannot fathom the wisdom of free floating prices - the people will surely starve….” Robespierre was back in his element, complexion clear and focused. 

Marat nodded along, trying to pay attention. It was difficult, more difficult than it should have been. But Robespierre was right there. And Marat would be lying if he said he disliked the man. In truth, it was the memory of that one night of hospitality that had kept Marat going through some of the long, uncomfortable nights. The memory of warmth, of companionship. Obstinate Robespierre, finally coming to bed. Marat hadn’t told him, hadn’t seen the need, but he’d woken up to Robespierre’s arm flung over his chest, face buried once more in Marat’s neck. What was it, he wondered, that attracted Robespierre so to the indent of his collar bone? Marat had lain there, listening to Robespierre breathe, feeling the other man’s lips gently tickling his skin. Then, carefully, he had pushed Robespierre’s arm off him, pulled his body away. Robespierre hadn’t woken up, and Marat had moved quietly from the room, taking his clothes with him. This memory had warmed him through the cold nights, trailed always by his name. Jean-Paul. In Robespierre’s sleepy, hesitant voice. Marat would also be lying if he didn’t admit to the impact all this daydreaming had had on him. One couldn’t go about thinking of another man in a kindly light for months and not expect it to change how one viewed him. It wasn’t news - Marat had just been better at ignoring it. 

Robespierre was still talking. He had moved the things off of Marat’s side table and was sitting on it, legs crossed delicately before him. Marat studied him. Perhaps Robespierre was another man living with an unspeakable secret. Perhaps they had that in common. Perhaps…. 

“No, no,” Marat interrupted. “Prices don’t matter. You have to deal with the hoarders.”

Robespierre stopped talking, a brief flash of anger at being interrupted trailing across his face. “I’m sorry.”

Marat had no idea what he was saying. Just keep talking, keep bullshitting, keep him thinking you’re engaged. “Hoarders. Prices won’t matter if there are people who can monopolize the food supply.”

“The rich….”

“Yes, the rich. The rich are the problem; they can buy up more than they need and store it, and then what good does a price limit have? You have to find these people first, uproot them, get rid of them.”

Robespierre was nodding. He certainly dressed well enough to be hiding something. Most citizens had given up on breeches and stockings - the clothes of the aristocracy. But Robespierre cared about his appearance; it was obvious in his well fitting jackets and silk stockings, crisp white cravats and buckled shoes. Marat had met men like him before; highbrow, well turned out, with a streak of narcissism and unorthodox-y. Men who got around in more ways than one. Not that being well dressed was a sure sign of anything. Marat had never been one with much care about clothes. But it was possible. It was a hope, despite being a ridiculous one.

“Of course!” Robespierre was running with the idea now, leaning closer, enthusiasm drowning his inhibitions. “Perhaps a ration? Although I suppose then the government might have to pay for it -”

Keep him talking. “Rations are all good, but there are always ways to cheat the system. What you need to do is find some hoarder, and make examples out of them.”

“Yes, yes, of course, dissuade others from that path. Take their supply, give it to the people.”

“You must go farther than that, cheri.” Marat was enjoying himself now. He found himself leaning closer, drawn in by Robespierre’s enthusiasm, the distance between them shortening. How much of a frenzy must I work you into, Maximilien, before your words are pressed against my lips?

“Well, a public trial, certainly, with open galleries….”

“And when they are found guilty?”

“Well, they must be got rid of. Locked up -”

“Or perhaps….” Robespierre’s eyes were staring into his without a hint of embarrassment, only expectation. They were so close now; if Marat had leaned but a few centimeters farther their noses would brush. His eyes drifted down to Robespierre’s mouth. He may as well try. Marat brought his gaze back to Robespierre’s, half-lidded, head tilted suggestively. “Guillotined,” he finished quietly. 

For a moment, he thought Robespierre might kiss him. Despite the ridiculousness of the situation and his terrible attempts at flirting. But then Robespierre blinked. His eyes hardened. He leaned back, stood up. “Marat, as much as I admire your tenacity, I do not think we can turn to the guillotine as an answer to every problem.” 

Disappointment, hot and bitter, slithered through Marat’s veins. “Of course. How imbecilic of me. To think that being threatened with the death penalty would deter people from hoarding.”

“There simply must be a better way; that system is sure to get abused.”

“Oh yes, surely.”

Robespierre shot him a look of contempt. Well done, Marat thought. You ruined your chance. Should have remembered Robespierre was squeamish about blood. Angry, at himself, at Robespierre, at this whole stupid predicament, Marat turned back to his paper. Pick up the pen: write. Robespierre was watching him; Marat could feel his angry stare boring into his skull. 

The pen scratched, ink stopping mid-word. Marat swore quietly. He reached for the ink, not looking, muscle memory. It was on the side table, open and waiting. It wasn’t there; Robespierre had moved it to the ground. Now he bent to retrieve it, proffering it to the other man at the same moment Marat reached to where it had once been. Their hands collided. The ink spilled; over Marat, over his blanket, over his writings, over everything. 

“Shit!” Marat jumped up, knocking his writing board. The bathwater was black. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”

Robespierre was staring at him with a look of horror, mouth agape. Comical. Face flushed deep scarlet. Oh Robespierre, you’re so easy to fluster. Marat was half tempted to laugh at him, make some saucy remark, perhaps a “Like what you see?” But instead he scowled, hurriedly snatching at the blanket to cover his nudity, papers spilling into the tub.

“For fuck’s - don’t just stand there you nincompoop! Save my writing! Save it! Shit, shit shit.” 

Marat fumbled to wrap a towel about himself as Robespierre gingerly complied, taking out papers with his finger and thumb. Marat santched them from him, many of the sordid pieces ripping in his hands. 

“Now look what you’ve done! You stupid, ill bred, little fucking -” 

“Well. Excuse me for helping.”

“Helping?” Marat laughed, sarcastic and full mouthed. “Oh yes, you’re a great help when you come barging in here-”

“You keep your door unlocked!”

“Barging in here, disrupting my relaxation, spitting on all my ideas - and to top it all off you have to go waving your dumb little hands around and ruining all my hardwork!” 

Marat’s chest heaved. He glared at Robespierre, just daring him to speak. There were spots of anger on Robespierre’s cheeks. His hands were clenched at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling as he tried to regain his temper. 

“Look.” Robespierre took a deep breath. He trailed his fingers under his glasses, rubbing at the corners of his eyes. “I’m willing to apologize if…. You’re shivering.”

Marat laughed again, turning away. “Well, done genius. I’m so glad I have people like you around to make such delightfully brilliant observations! What would I ever do without you -”

A feather-light touch about his shoulders. Marat stopped short, heart pounding. Robespierre carefully adjusted the jacket - his jacket - fingertips brushing against Marat’s collar bone as he pulled away. It was heavy, heavier than Marat would have expected, and warm. Robespierre’s warmth. Robespierre’s jacket.

The two men stared at each other, eyes wide, unsure how to continue. 

Marat: “I’m sorry for calling you an ill-bred little -” 

Robespierre, at the same time: “I’m sorry about your manuscript -”

A pause. The look in Robespierre’s eyes changed; less fear, more humour.

“Thank you,” Marat whispered. “For - for the jacket.”

“Of course.” Robespierre had a vest beneath, of pale yellow silk. It was well fitted, trim. He looked wonderful. “I’m sorry about your paper.”

“It’s fine.” Marat clutched at the jacket, pulling it tighter about his shoulders. Robespierre’s eyes flashed, something incomprehensible. Marat was tempted to thank him again. He was tempted to commend Robespierre’s fashion sense. He was tempted to kiss him. What would Robespierre do if he did?

Robespierre stiffened beneath Marat’s hands. Ramrod straight, mouth hard and unyielding against Marat’s. Oh no, Marat thought. Oh god. Oh fuck. What had he done?

Marat pulled away sharply, blood rising in his face. Robespierre stood before him, expression blank, eyes unfocused, staring at some point over Marat’s head. He slowly readjusted his glasses. 

“Uhm.” Marat cleared his throat. How was he supposed to fix this, to make it right, to keep Robespierre from running and telling someone? “I’m sorry, I got overexcited….”

A terrible excuse. End me now, Marat thought. He couldn’t look at Robespierre. He couldn’t face that rejection. Robespierre had offered him his jacket and Marat had thought that - what - that made it okay to kiss him? Never, Marat told himself. Never in this society. Never without being absolutely, perfectly sure. People were killed for less. Slowly, Marat raised his eyes, trying to gauge Robespierre’s reaction. 

Robespierre took Marat’s face in his hands, hooked them under Marat’s jaw, pulling the other man’s face to his own. One of his fingers trailed behind Marat’s ear. Then Robespierre firmly pressed their lips together. Mouths melding. Marat’s heart jumped, pulse thudding crazily in his neck and head. Surely Robespierre could feel it, hear it, Marat’s stupid heart and his desperate need for this. 

Gently, Marat brought his hands to Robespierre’s waist, praying the other man wouldn’t pull away, praying this action wouldn’t ruin the moment. Marat could feel Robespierre heat through his clothes, the shape of his body firm beneath the silk. 

In response to his touch Robespierre leaned into him, mouth hot and demanding and insistent. His lips were soft. One of his hands trailed along Marat’s neck, fingertip dipping into the hollow at the base of his neck. It sent a shiver down Marat’s spine. Robespierre tasted like powder and oranges. 

A kiss. A kiss deep and passionate and better than anything Marat had dared to dream. 

Then Robespierre pulled away, close enough for their lips to brush with each breath. Marat was grinning, a giant ridiculous grin, and both men were panting slightly, out of breath. Robespierre’s eyes were half closed, gaze traversing Marat’s mouth. Then he ducked his chin, swallowed hard; the actions bringing their foreheads together for a brief moment. 

Robespierre pulled back, marshaling his expression into a semblance of propriety. He was doing a pretty terrible job of it. Marat didn’t even try; he let his smile split his face in two. It was difficult, oh so difficult, to look the other in the eye. If he did for more than a second, Marat was sure, he would do something stupid. 

Robespierre cleared his throat. “Um. Well. I’ll… I’d best be going.”

“Oh. Alright.”

Neither moved. 

“I’ll -”

“Come visit again some time -”

“I’d enjoy that.”

“Alright.”

“Well,” said Robespierre. “I’ll see you -”

“Soon.”

“Yes.” A cough. “Au revoir, citoyen.”

“Au revoir, cher Maximilien.”

Robespierre flushed, pleased, then quickly turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him. Marat staggered slightly. Without the other man in the room, he suddenly felt wobbly, as though his legs might give out. Marat steadied himself against the tub, his heart beating at a ridiculous tempo. Did that really just happen? Robespierre was no longer in the room, likely no longer in the house. Marat couldn’t ask him to confirm. For a moment he was filled with the longing to run after the other man, beg him to come back, to clarify, to kiss him again. But that wouldn’t be very dignified, especially in Marat’s current state of dress: his head wrap, a scant towel and Robespierre’s jacket. His jacket. Marat pulled the garment tight, breathing in the heady scent of it. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps today was a fluke. But this, this jacket - it was insurance that Robespierre would come once more.

Robespierre hurried down the street, inattentive to the people and activities around him. His lips were tingling, and he could still feel the ghostly residue of Marat’s hands upon his waist. Just the thought of it, the merest focus on the sensation, made his head spin; a not altogether unpleasant sensation. His fingers continually trailed to his lips, searching for a confirmation of the recent events. He could feel the smile on his face, much too large and unabashed, but there was little he could do to help it. So Robespierre ducked his head and walked on, heart pounding and vision unfocused. 

Marat. Marat had kissed him. He supposed he should feel some sort of revulsion at the thought - that was to be expected wasn’t it? - but instead he was filled with jubilation. Marat had kissed him. Perhaps it had been a mistake, hadn’t Marat said…? Well, Robespierre couldn’t remember exactly what he had said. Something about getting overexcited. Do I excite you, Marat? Robespierre wondered. The thought made him smirk; it was something he would expect Marat to say. Or perhaps Desmoulins or Danton. 

Marat. Marat with his foul mouth and knowing eyes and seeming lack of dignity. Perhaps the first kiss had been a mistake, but the second…. Perhaps it was not Marat but himself, Robespierre, who had gotten overexcited. Robespierre froze, fingertips pressed against his mouth. He had acted out of reckless passion. Heady, reckless, sudden, uncontrollable passion. Which meant that Marat excited him. 

Robespierre pressed himself back against the nearest building, ignoring the strange looks some passing women shot him. How long would this have had to be going on for him to become so unbalanced by one kiss? He’d kissed people before, but he’d never completely lost his faculties of reason because of it. What did it mean? Was he…? Robespierre shook his head, attempting to dislodge the thought. It wouldn’t come loose. 

That was dangerous. Too dangerous. Marat could just be pulling him along, toying with him, waiting to see how far Robespierre would go before slandering him in his newspaper. But Marat… Marat had looked so happy, so ridiculously, stupidly happy. Robespierre could still see his face, the looping smile, grey eyes devoid of hostility, a faint blush pinking Marat’s cheeks. Marat was almost never flustered. He should more often, Robespierre thought. It was a good look on him. Pleasant. Adorable. 

No. This couldn’t just be some front Marat was putting on. It was too dangerous, even by Marat’s standards. Robespierre could have left. He could have left and told someone, sent Marat on the road again, once more in hiding. Who would he have told? Camille? No, Camille would have just laughed, a knowing look in his eye. “Haven’t gotten over it have you, Max?” No, he wouldn’t have told Camille. Danton perhaps? Danton probably would have just given him a strange look, shrugged and changed the subject. Perhaps they already knew. About Marat of course, only about Marat. 

Oh, Jean-Paul Marat. What, Robespierre wondered, have I gotten myself into? He was half tempted to turn back, hurry back to the Marat’s house, up the narrow steps to the humid bathroom. Tell Marat it was a mistake, they were both mistaken, nothing had happened. But that meant facing Marat. Marat with his thin lipped, expressive mouth; a mouth that could kiss him and smile at the same time, warm and inviting. The jolt of pleasure that shot through Robespierre at the thought was enough to dissuade him from that course of action. In all likelihood, Robespierre would try to tell him that the kiss had been a mistake, and instead end up kissing Marat again. 

Stop. They had to stop this before it got out of hand. Slowly, shakily, Robespierre pushed himself away from the wall, setting off for home. One kiss - two kisses - that could be hidden. Covered up. No one would know. That was fine. But there couldn’t be more. They were both public men, and something like this could ruin not only their reputations but their entire careers. Couldn’t it?

There were some men who flaunted such things, Robespierre supposed, and who got off just fine. But he wasn’t one of those men. He was the Incorruptible. Everything in this Revolution was precarious, not least public opinion. 

Tomorrow. After he had collected himself, washed the memory from his mind, scrubbed his lips to remove the lasting sensation. Tomorrow he would visit Marat again, inform him it was just a fluke, there was nothing between them. Then he would leave, return to his work, and never look back. Tomorrow. 

Robespierre had never lied so much in his life.

It was four days later that Robespierre finally worked up the courage to stop by. Not so much courage, perhaps, as the fact that he had left his favourite jacket (a mistake he’d only realized in the morning). It was, if anything, an excellent excuse. A pleasant lie he could tell himself to cover up the truth. The truth: Jean-Paul Marat, I can’t go on kissing you; this will ruin our careers, let’s stop while we’re ahead. No, no. He was getting his jacket back, and would be kindly informing Marat that he, Robespierre, simply wasn’t interested.

Robespierre pulled at his cravat as he walked, self-conscious. He had dressed with careful solemnity this morning. Not to say that he didn’t dress with care normally. But this occasion required a certain grim finality to it. He’d settled for a black jacket, pristine white stockings and breeches, a dark vest, buckled shoes shined to perfection. 

An errand. Not interested. Simply not interested. The words repeated in his head in time to his steps. Not interested. Here for the jacket. Business matters.

Would Marat be in his bath again?

Best, Robespierre thought, shaking his head, not to think of it. Yet he couldn’t calm his racing heart. 

Marat’s sister - or that was whom Robespierre assumed she was, they shared a certain look, something dark and brooding - opened the door. She raised her eyebrows upon seeing him. 

“I’m here to see -”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Didn’t get enough of him last time, huh?”

Robespierre could feel the heat rising in his face. Tersely: “I’m here strictly on business.”

Marat’s sister shrugged, then turned and yelled into the house. “Jean-Paul! You have a visitor!”

A response - Robespierre couldn’t make out the words. Marat’s sister shrugged again. “Yeah, whatever. Head on up. He’s in the bath again.”

Great. Robespierre’s pulse thudded against his ears as he mounted the narrow steps. Outside the bathroom door he paused. Perhaps he should leave. Just send a messenger to pick up the jacket. He could afford it. Send a letter explaining the situation. Or just not explain at all - Marat would take the hint. But no, he was no coward. He would have to face Marat sooner or later. Better in private than in the Convention.

Softly, he rapped on the door. 

“The door is open!”

Marat’s voice sent a shiver down Robespierre’s spine. He straightened his jacket, took a deep breath and stepped through the door.

Everything was back to where it had been on his first visit. The side table, back within arms reach. The blanket, a far cry from actual decency, but situated well enough. Writing board, ink, quills, Marat. He was hunched over his writing, dark hair protruding from under his head wrap, the light glancing off of his skin. 

Robespierre steadied himself against the door, swallowed, coughed. Marat looked glanced up, grey eyes nearly black in the smothered light, mouth pursed, ready for conflict. Their gazes caught; expectant, unsure, frightened. Neither one moved. 

“Robespierre.” It was nearly a whisper, dropped by accident, but enough to break the silence. Marat cleared his throat, broke the contact. Reaching out he cleared the ink and paper off of the side table. “Here. Sit.”

“Thank you.” Robespierre sat, pulling the side table back and away to a safe distance. A momentary look of distaste flitted over Marat’s face. 

“Alright, what can I do for you?”

Robespierre’s mouth was dry. “My jacket.”

“Of course.” Disappointment, visible in the dismissive way Marat gestured to the side table. Robespierre glanced beneath him. There, carefully folded on the small shelf, was a familiar blue stripe. 

“Oh excellent, you still have it. Well, thank you, citoyen. I hope you have a good day -”

“Is that all?”

Robespierre froze, turned around. “Pardon?”

“Is that all you came for today? To get your jacket back?”

“Yes.” Marat raised an eyebrow. There was a small, irritatingly charming smirk on his lips. “Alright, no. I also came to inform you of our progress.”

“Oh, we have progress?” Marat’s smirk widened. “And?”

“Well, I informed the Convention of your thoughts on hoarders -”

“Yes, that. Right. The Convention is taking it into consideration.”

“How did you know?”

“Ah, cheri,” the emphasis on the word was unmistakable, “do you really think you’re the only one who visits me to discuss politics? Of course not, I’m too valuable for that, what with my paper and my influence with the people” 

“No.” Robespierre shook his head, unbalanced. “No, no, you’re right. You make a good point.”

“Of course I make a good point! I have lots of good points!” A sly look. “Some of which I’d be very willing to allow you to explore more thoroughly….” Marat leaned back with exaggerated nonchalance, arms draped over the edge of the tub, head inclined: inviting, suggestive. 

Scarlet burned on Robespierre’s cheeks. “No!” he snapped. The nerve of this man!

“I thought you wanted to talk politics.”

“I do not want to talk politics with you. I came for my jacket, and business, and I am not interested, I am strictly not interested, not in… in….”

“What?” Marat sat up, leaned in - slow, controlled. “What are you not interested in?”

Robespierre stared him down, mouth set in a firm line. “I am not interested in anything more than a business relationship.”

“I wasn’t aware we had more than a business relationship.” 

“We don’t, I merely wanted to be clear.”

“Why?” A sharp, stunted question. You know why, Robespierre was tempted to scream. Don’t act so innocent, you know what happened. 

“Because of… what happened four days ago.”

“Oh?” Marat’s eyes were cold, hard: pits. “And what was that?”

“You know damn well.”

Marat sneered, face inches from Robespierre’s own. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“You,” Robespierre hissed it between his teeth, “kissed me. In a fit of over-excitement.”

That got a smile, Marat’s eyes trailing down to his mouth and back, raising goosebumps on Robespierre’s arms. In a voice of equal softness: “And you kissed me back.”

“I am aware,” Robespierre snapped. “It seems we were both a little drunk on excitement.”

Marat raised his eyebrows, his nose a hair’s breadth from bumping into Robespierre’s. “Do I excite you, Maximilien?”

Robespierre inhaled sharply, paralyzed. He should leave, leave now, stand up and leave and never come back. But part of him, the stupid, unwanted part of him, the excited part of him, just wanted to close those last few inches, taste his name on Marat’s lips. But I can’t, he thought, I can’t do either of those things. I came here with a purpose, and I am going to see it through. 

“Citoyen.” He put as much ice, as much lawyer-ly disconnect as he could into the word. “I already said I was not interested in more than a business relationship. I stand by that. Your attempts at flirting, your proximity, will not change my mind. I am not, as you say, excited by you.”

“Cheri -”

“No, listen. I came here for my jacket, and to inform you of my decision. Whatever happened between us was unimportant. I trust you to forget about it, or if that is too much for you, to at the very least never discuss it again.”

Marat was scowling now, hostile. Good. “Do I get any say in this?”

“No.” Robespierre turned on his heel. Leave now. Leave while he could. A thought struck him: he reached the door, turned. “Also it’s citoyen, not cheri.”

Marat was back in the Convention. His condition, while still there, had faded to a manageable extent so that he was able to spend his days outside the tub. For this he was thankful. It was nice to be able to walk the streets again, speak to his fellow citizens, bask in the attention, crack rude jokes with Danton, share a meal. He especially enjoyed no longer having his politics spoon-fed to him, second hand. Much, much better to be there in person, in the events as they happened. In the Convention.

With Robespierre.

Marat tried his best to avoid Robespierre. It wasn’t hard, as Robespierre also seemed to be avoiding him. It still rankled Marat. How, how could he have miscalculated so badly? It had been a mistake, yes, but Robespierre… Robespierre had enjoyed it. Hadn’t he? Marat wasn’t sure anymore. And it wasn’t like he could just ask Robespierre: Good evening citizen. Did you actually hate kissing me, or are you just choosing to ignore your feelings? 

No, Marat had made a wishful assumption. He would have to forget that kiss, convince himself of the truth: Robespierre was not attracted to men. Still, it was hard, especially when Robespierre stepped up to the tribune. It was expected that you watched who stood there, took in what they were saying. But Marat’s eyes kept trailing to Robespierre’s mouth, remembering the taste, trying to forget it. So he stopped watching Robespierre talk, turned his eyes down, focused on the words. That metallic voice, uncommonly quiet: a rare thing among the revolutionary men. Danton practically breathed fire every time he spoke. 

Jean-Paul. Once, Robespierre had only said it once. Marat would have to forget that as well. He may as well just forget that Robespierre had ever existed, and reintroduce himself. But that would be like trying to forget how to write. Near impossible. He should… maybe he should apologize. He couldn’t just keep avoiding the other man. They were politicians. They would be forced to interact at some point or other. Better, he supposed, on their own terms.

Robespierre was shuffling his papers together, neatening them with gentle taps on the desk. The Convention was clearing up: the politicking over, time for some fun, some rest. Without all the members the Convention’s meeting hall felt cavernous. Marat waited, feeling the space grow larger around him. Then he strode down the tiered seats to where Robespierre was standing.

“Citoyen.”

Robespierre stiffened slightly, but didn’t turn around. “Marat.” His voice was flat, expressionless.

Marat sighed, rubbed at his eyes. “Can we talk?”

“We are talking.”

“You know what I mean. In private.” 

Robespierre looked around at the empty seats. “We are public men, Marat. I do not shy from letting the public know my political dealings.” 

“Fine.” He was, after all, rebuilding a political ally-ship. Marat spread his hand on the desk, studying the ink stained fingers. 

Robespierre tapped his papers once more, then tucked them carefully into his bag. “Well?”

“I wanted to apologize.” Marat grimaced; the words left an ashy taste in his mouth. 

“Oh?”

“Yes. For…,” how to phrase this, “for putting you in a compromisable situation. I let my emotions get the best of me.” Oh god, what was he saying? He may as well just confess his undying love right here, right now. Marat pinched his nose, brow furrowed, frustrated. “It was never my intention to harm your political career. That happened, and I’m sorry for it; it won’t happen again.” 

Robespierre nodded. He was silent for a moment. Then he placed both hands, palms down, on the desk. His hands were smaller than Marat’s, built along a finer bone structure. They looked soft, unused, and there was a sprinkle of freckles across the back. Marat suspected that if he was to pull Robespierre’s sleeve back he’d find those freckles running up his arm. Perhaps they reached Robespierre’s shoulders, his neck: Marat shook the thought from his head. That was not for him to know. 

Robespierre flexed his fingers against the table; a fist, then opened again. His fingernails, Marat noticed, had a bitten look to them. A nervous tick, likely developed in childhood. A strange thing in a man so composed. 

“Thank you.”

Marat nodded. “Best not for allies to go avoiding each other.” Robespierre didn’t say anything. Marat tapped his fingers against the table. “Right. Well, au revoir Citoyen -”

“Wait.” Robespierre hand fastened around his, pinning him in place. Marat turned back, his heart, which he had managed to calm until that moment, pounding in his throat.

Robespierre’s eyes were wide, staring with a strange frightened determination. Marat stared back, unsure. His mouth had gone dry. “Yes?”

Robespierre opened his mouth, closed it again. He turned his gaze to their hands, his own planted firmly on top of Marat’s. Marat observed, rather then felt, Robespierre gently take his hand and turn the palm to the ceiling, running his thumb over it in a slow circle. Robespierre interlaced their fingers. Marat’s eyes trailed from their hands to Robespierre’s face, back to their hands again. He gave Robespierre’s hand a slight squeeze, testing to see if the other man would pull away. He didn’t. 

“I thought,” his voice was scratchy. “I thought you wanted to keep this -”

The door banged open. Robespierre snatched his hand away.

“Max!” Marat turned. Camille Desmoulins was hurrying towards them, out of breath. “I just realized I forgot my notes. Did you grab them by chance?” He acknowledged Marat with a nod. “I’m afraid I’ve been a bit forgetful recently. Family matters and all that.”

Marat hoped his face was composed. Robespierre had turned to his bag, quickly extracting the required documents. “Try not to forget these next time, Camille. This isn’t school anymore - I can’t be the one responsible for staying on top of your homework.”

“Hey, I did my homework!”

Robespierre smiled at him. “But I had to remind you.”

“Only sometimes. Alright, Maxime, I promise. Thank you. I suppose I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

He hurried back out the door in a flurry of boots and paper. Marat blinked. He glanced back to Robespierre, who stood gazing after Desmoulins. The door thudded closed. Marat coughed. “Well.” 

Perhaps he could take Robespierre’s hand again. He wanted to. He wanted it desperately, this little piece of evidence, proof that maybe he hadn’t misjudged, maybe Robespierre did feel… something. Maybe. 

Robespierre’s hands were at his sides now. Marat reached out, gently brushing their fingers together. The lightest of contacts. When Robespierre didn’t pull away, Marat took his hand, still gently, ready to be rebuffed at any second. Robespierre looked at their hands. He looked at Marat, eyes unfathomable. Then Robespierre closed the distance, leaned down, and kissed him. 

It was so sudden, so unexpected. Marat staggered back, surprised. “I thought you wanted a purely business relationship!”

Robespierre looked hurt, confused, frustrated. “I do. I should.”

“Then what - why - why did you…?”

“Why are you getting angry about it? I thought that’s what you wanted!”

“Fuck what I want - wasn’t that the plan? Keep it professional, keep Maximilien Robespierre happy.”

“Now just a moment!”

“Careers first, that’s what you wanted.”

Robespierre looked haggard now. “I know!”

“So then why -”

“I don’t know! It should be what I want, it should be, but it isn’t. I….” Robespierre shook his head. Quietly: “I don’t know.”

“Alright.” Robespierre glanced at him. Marat said it again. “Alright.” He smiled. “Just so long as we’re on the same page.” Robespierre nodded. Marat tipped his head, smiling wider. “So…?”

“What?”

He raised his chin, defiant, waiting. “Are we going to continue playing at political politeness, or are you going to kiss me?”

Robespierre’s brows contracted in a frown. “This stays between us,” he said. Then his hands were cupping Marat’s waist and he was pulling the other man to him. “You tell no one.” Robespierre’s words brushed his cheek. He met Marat’s eyes, green tinted gaze serious. 

Marat clasped his hands behind Robespierre’s head, pulling the other man’s lips to his own. “I promise.” 

It was the end of a long day. Politicians. Marat signed. Some of his hair had escaped into his eyes, and he tucked it forcefully back under his head wrap, grimacing. So stubborn. It was next to impossible to get anything done without someone taking it personally and getting offended. Marat tucked his papers under his arm, and starting at a brisk walk away from the Green Room. Had there been any progress made today?

The truth was, Marat hadn’t been paying full attention. Robespierre and himself hadn’t spoken since their last meeting, and Marat wasn’t sure what to think. Robespierre had kissed him - was kissing him, in stolen moments between meetings - but they were always flushed and breathless: something born of physical passion and little else. They’d become quite good at it, finding those brief moments of privacy, Robespierre especially. He would run into Marat as though by accident in back rooms or empty hallways, press a quick and intoxicating kiss to Marat’s mouth, then disappear again onto the next item of business. Then there was a week where Robespierre and Marat saw nothing of each other save the Convention appearance: Marat was quite positive Robespierre was avoiding him again. He let it go, frustrated, but too busy to do much about it. But the next week Robespierre was back, and Marat forgot his grudge the moment Robespierre had walked in the room. He’d begun to speak, stopped by Robespierre’s hands and lips, his tongue slipping momentarily past Marat’s teeth and leaving him dizzy. After that it was back to the stolen moments, whenever possible, kisses deep but chaste in comparison. 

Lust, Marat thought with a snort. The Incorruptible was lusting. He supposed that made sense: one couldn’t be called The Incorruptible without repressing something. And that something just happened to make an appearance when Marat was around. Which was fine. Marat liked being privy to this crack in Robespierre’s armor of virtue. He liked the feeling of Robespierre’s hands in his hair, the slight taste of powder and oranges when their mouths connected. He liked watching the other man flush, in pleasure and embarrassment, provoked by Marat’s flirtatious quips. Robespierre seemed to have come to terms with that, with kissing; if anything, he instigated most of the time. But there was more there - Marat could feel it. At least, for him there was. But Robespierre… Robespierre was hard to read. He became flustered easily, and angered even quicker, but of the softer emotions Robespierre remained strangely aloof. His green eyes would become cold and hard, barricading the path for anyone attempting to read him. Although, Marat supposed, he himself did something similar. Avoid pain. Disconnect. React with anger. 

Marat sighed again, shaking his head to clear it. His shirt was beginning to itch: he needed a bath. 

“Citoyen.” A hand took his arm. Lost in his thoughts, Marat hadn’t heard anyone approach. 

“What?” he snapped reflexively, then looked up. 

Robespierre, eyes slate-like and unreadable behind his green tinted glasses: “We need to talk.”

Robespierre pulled Marat into the nearest empty room, and closed the door carefully behind them. Marat hopped up onto the desk at the center - a large, heavy, oaken monstrosity, large enough to be considered a table, with thick filigree legs. There was a window behind the desk, with a view out onto the Tuileries’ garden below. Beyond that, Paris, her buildings a muted brown against the blue sky. 

Robespierre locked the door with the clink, then turned and walked to the window. Marat watched the other man pensively. Robespierre drummed his delicate fingers lightly on the window sill, still not speaking, and Marat was tempted to supply a jab at Robespierre’s pants just to alleviate the silence. He decided against it. Robespierre had brought him here, he could be the first to talk. 

Robespierre contemplated the garden, pursing his lips. The air in the room was stuffy, hot. The sunlight created playful ladders through the floating dust, and backlit as he was, it gave Robespierre a sort of halo. 

Marat fidgeted, impatient. “You said we had to talk.”

Robespierre licked his lips. “Right. Yes. Marat.” He turned, throwing his face into shadow. “Marat,” he said again. Then, “Maybe we should close the drapes.”

“What, you plan on fucking me in the Tuileries?”

Robespierre's face flushed so quickly it was as though Marat had slapped him. “No! Why would-? No! I just want privacy.”

“So you can fuck me?”

“I’m not,” Robespierre dropped his voice to a whisper, hissing the word between his teeth, “fucking you. We’re talking.”

Marat huffed a breath through his nose. “So talk.”

“I’m getting there, give me a minute.” Robespierre fingered the heavy drapes. His cheeks were still sporting a lovely pink colour.

“If you want privacy, it would be better to go to my house - ”

“Shut up.” 

Marat threw his hands up in frustration, but stayed silent. Robespierre took some deep breaths, trailing his fingertips beneath his glasses to rub at his eyes. He seemed tired. Finally, he turned to Marat, a spot of pink still visible on each cheek. “What do you….” He stepped closer. “What are you hoping to gain from this? Our… us.”

Us. Acknowledgement that they were something. Hearing the word dropped from Robespierre’s lips made Marat’s heart race. “Um,” he started, feeling suddenly put on the spot. Flustered. What the fuck.

“Well, what do you want from this?” he countered forcefully. 

Robespierre glanced away, licking his lips again. Goddamn it, why did he have to be so pretty? Marat shook his head. Stupid, pretty Robespierre making him feel out of place with his unexpected questions.

“I don’t….” Robespierre trailed off. When he met Marat’s eyes, a small smirk was curling the corners of his mouth. “I asked you first.”

“Alright, fine.” Marat took a deep breath. This was going to be awkward. Then again, he’d been hoping to have a conversation like this hadn’t he? “I like kissing you. I’d like to keep doing that.”

Robespierre nodded, mouth set firm and eyes unreadable. Great.

“I understand if that’s all you’re comfortable with,” Marat pushed on. “This was all a bit… unexpected.”

“Yes,” Robespierre breathed, nearly inaudible. “And our reputations….”

“Yes, so I get it if you don’t want to make this anything more than impersonal snogging.”

Robespierre flushed again, averting his gaze. “Maybe….”

Marat sighed. “If what you need is someone you can release your lust on every once in a while, I can supply that.”

Robespierre bristled. “I don’t lust.”

“Yes, you do, but that’s beside the point. Look, Robespierre.” Marat hooked his foot around Robespierre’s calf, pulling the other man closer. “Look at me, please.”

The spots of pink were standing out brilliantly on Robespierre’s cheeks, the little bow of his mouth twisted as though sucking on a piece of candy. He stood stiffly, a strange look in his eyes, fight and flight combating for dominance. 

“Robespierre,” Marat said again. He tapped his foot against the other man’s leg. “I won’t push you into anything. But I want to be more than the convenient mouth you come to when you’re feeling rebellious.”

Robespierre nodded slowly. He glanced at the ceiling, letting out a small laugh as he did so. “Alright.”

Marat’s heart jumped. “Alright?”

“Alright. Yes, I’d like that. I’d like to try being… more.” Robespierre spread his hands. “Whatever that means. And I don’t lust.”

Marat cocked an eyebrow, giving Robespierre a look of cool disagreement. “Sure you don’t. Well, we can change that.”

“Shut up,” Robespierre said, but he couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice. 

“Oh, yes, perhaps you should close the drapes.” Marat tugged sharply on Robespierre’s leg, catching him off guard. Robespierre spilled forward, nearly knocking their heads together. His hands landed rather forcefully on Marat’s thighs, steadying himself just in time to prevent a full on collision. The two men locked eyes, and sparks shot from Marat’s legs up his spine. Robespierre gave him a sheepish smile, lips parted and eyes dancing. Marat swallowed hard, fighting down a sudden bout of nerves.

“Robespierre,” Marat whispered. The other man nodded, green eyes soft and open, almost vulnerable. 

Marat leaned forward, grateful for the added height the table gave him. Their noses bumped. Robespierre released a small breath, tickling Marat’s face, and closed his eyes. His eyelashes were short and pale, and at this proximity Marat could make out the specks of powder decorating them that had fallen from Robespierre’s wig. 

“You should really stop wearing wigs,” Marat murmured, attempting to blow the powder away.

Robespierre huffed, eyes still closed. He gave Marat’s thighs a playful squeeze. “I thought you were going to kiss me, not criticize my fashion choices.” 

“You’re going to have to stop talking first.”

Robespierre dutifully shut up, but he squeezed Marat’s legs one more time for good measure. Marat let his gaze roam over Robespierre’s face, the expression of which was expectant, peaceful. Then Marat tipped his face up, gently bringing his lips to rest against Robepsierre’s soft pink bow of a mouth. Upon feeling the contact Robespierre leaned hungrily into him, momentarily deepening the kiss, but Marat pulled back. Lusting, he was tempted to say, but refrained. Instead, he took the other man’s face in his hands, gently but firmly holding him in place. This wouldn’t be like their other kisses, those hurried and gasping spur of the moment things driven by needy passion. They’d agreed to more than that. 

Marat brought his mouth back to Robespierre’s, allowing only the merest flirtation of pressure. Beneath his hands, he felt Robespierre shiver. Marat smiled, hooking both legs around Robespierre’s, and slowly deepened the kiss. His fingers trailed down Robespierre’s chest to his waist; he pulled the other man closer. 

Robespierre’s lips were parted. He let out a little hum of pleasure, running his hands up Marat’s legs, which elicited a surprised gasp. Marat pulled away, and Robespierre re-situated his kisses to Marat’s jaw.

“Fuck, Robespierre.” Marat pushed his hand onto Robespierre’s lips; Robespierre’s eyes were glittering. 

“What’s wrong?” His words tickled Marat’s palm.

“Don’t act so innocent, you little…,” Marat trailed off, his repertoire of insults failing him. “For someone who allegedly doesn’t lust, you’re awfully provocative.” 

Robespierre raised an eyebrow, and Marat swatted him. “Prick.”

Robespierre laughed, and pressed another kiss onto Marat’s jaw. “We better get going. People may wonder what we’re doing in here for so long.” A look of consternation briefly flitted across his features. “If anyone asks, we were discussing politics.”

Marat tugged at Robespierre’s hips, pressing the other man to him. “If anyone asks, I’ll tell them how you decided to fuck me in the Tuileries.” 

“You will not.” 

“Who knows?” Marat smirked, wrapping his limbs tightly about Robespierre. “Maybe if I say it enough it’ll actually happen.”

“Who's the lustful one now?”

“No one would believe me even if you do. Well,” Marat paused, “Danton would. But that’s only one man, so-”

Robespierre rolled his eyes, disentangling himself from Marat’s legs and pushing his arms away. “I am never going to make love to you in the Tuileries. Or any other public building.” 

“What about a private building?”

“No.”

Marat pouted dramatically, and Robespierre rolled his eyes. “But you have such a nice ass.” Marat tapped it with his foot, and Robespierre flushed, swatting the offending shoe away.

“Stop flirting, I’m going to unlock the door.” Robespierre hesitated, then pressed one final kiss onto Marat’s mouth. “Remember, we were talking politics.” 

“Oh yes, I adore politics.” 

Robespierre unlocked the door, then straightened his jacket. “Until tomorrow, citoyen.” 

“I look forward to it.”

One last little smile and then he was gone, his quick steps fading down the hall. Marat leaned back on the desk, and took a deep breath. Well.

He got up quickly and left the room.

He might, Robespierre had to admit, have a problem. That problem was Marat. More importantly, Marat’s mouth. If he was going to get really specific, it was the memory of those words leaving Marat’s mouth - I want to be more - but it was also just Marat’s mouth. It was also just Marat. Could you be addicted to a person?

Robespierre had experience with addiction. Not personally of course, but he knew what it meant to be consumed by something, to have it steal you away from your problems and your responsibilities. His father, coming home rarely then not at all, smelling of liquor and filth, collapsing on the sofa before he left the next day to return possibly later, possibly never. Robespierre remembered the harsh voices of his grandparents, his father’s weak but angered complaints. He remembered shying away from his father’s breath, running to the fresh air of the garden, to his aviary. His grandfather sitting him down one night to explain that the grief had been too much, and that his father wasn’t going to be coming back. To not hold out hope. That, that was addiction. 

But Marat… Thoughts of Marat, longing for Marat, consumed his waking hours. It wasn’t always forefront: he could still, for the most part, focus on meetings, work, politics. But his mind would stray, and Marat would be there, with his sturdy frame and dexterous hands and supple mouth. Robespierre found himself searching Marat out more frequently between meetings. He was getting careless, he knew, but Marat’s kisses had awoken some previously repressed craving that would not be satiated. It was both exhilarating and tiring. 

What was it that made Marat’s kisses so different from the rest? Robespierre pondered as he lay in bed. He’d had other kisses, other relationships, courtships, but none had driven him this close to distraction. Was it because Marat was a man? Was there something about a man’s mouth that drove people up the wall? But no, that made no sense. There were plenty of women who hated their husbands, had multiple lovers, girls visited and kissed by men more times than they could count. If there was a scientific explanation, it would have to stem from the fact that they were both men: perhaps this was their punishment, to be driven mad by their own sin.

Robespierre dug his palms into his eyes. He didn’t, logically, believe in God. At least, not in the way most people thought of him. There was, he was sure, no giant man floating above them and intervening in their lives as he saw fit. A watching presence, yes, but God had no physical form, no doctrine of the type preached. He loved his creations: surely, a God, if there was one, wouldn’t punish him in such a way. Surely, Robespierre reasoned, if God hadn’t intended men to fall for each other he wouldn’t have made it feel so good. Unless it was all part of a test. Fight temptation, fight that natural inclination to sin. Robespierre was good at that, had always been good at that. He was the Incorruptible.

Until now.

Robespierre turned and sat up, raking a hand through his hair. What did it mean? Was this all, this whole thing with Marat, a mistake? It was certainly dangerous. They both knew it, but they’d both been stupid enough to carry on. Stolen kisses in back rooms. A sly touch on the shoulder, the small of the back, a squeeze of the hand when they passed each other in hallways. They were more, they’d agreed to be more, whatever that meant. 

The thought scared him. Kissing, touching - that they could keep quiet, provided they were careful about it. Granted, Robespierre had gotten worse at that. But being more, being part of a relationship…. What would that even constitute? What was required of him? 

With a woman, it was easy. With a woman there were expectations, societal regulations to follow through, procedures, familial roles. A mother, a father; a husband, a wife. But between two men…? You couldn’t follow the same guidelines. You couldn’t, Robespierre’s face flushed at the thought, produce heirs. God forbid you even tried. How would you even go about it, for starters? 

Stop, Robespierre told himself. You’ve taken this far enough. No more questions. He shook his head, lay back in his bed, a quiet uneasiness settling over him like a blanket. 

The uneasiness was still there, in the back of his mind, as he got dressed for the Convention the next morning. An uninvited guest as he set off to work, riding with him through the morning’s meetings, the speeches and conversations. There was Marat, unkempt yet elegant, his sharp tongue trading retorts with the deputies of the Plain. There was Marat, at the tribune, his short frame trembling with passion and rage. And there again was Marat, pushed against the wall of the closeted room Robespierre had pulled him into, dark eyes humorous and smile biting. The uneasiness was there too, pushing itself into Robespierre’s throat and constricting his breathing. 

He had his hands on Marat’s shoulders, and it was only when Marat grimaced slightly that he realized his knuckles were white. He willed his grip to loosen, sliding his hands down Marat’s arms and distorting his shirt. The collar gaped, and Robespierre could see Marat’s neck, his collarbone, the indent where they met. Robespierre pushed his face to that spot. Marat chuckled in his ear, and Robespierre wanted so desperately to capture that sound, bottle it up and down his unease in it. He trailed his tongue lightly over Marat’s skin,and the chuckles became a gasp for air, his name spluttered helplessly against his ear. 

“Robespierre.” Marat pulled back slightly. “Cheri. Is everything alright-?”

Robespierre didn’t let him finish, sliding their mouths together and yielding to the craving that had ached behind his sternum all morning. 

Not so incorruptible.

Shut up, Robespierre wanted to scream. Shut up, shut up, shut up! What did it matter, this, this secret, so long as it remained so? No one will know, no one will ever know, no one -

“MAX,” Marat garbled against his lips. He thumbed a hand against Robespierre’s chest. “A man still has to breathe.” 

“Yes.” Robespierre swallowed hard, “Right.” He was out of breath. 

“Not that I don’t appreciate your zealous displays of affection.” Marat tipped his head forward, the light from the small corner window playing across his face. “I just thought that perhaps we should have a discussion before you started ripping my clothes off.”

“I was not -”

“You were close.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Did you want to?”

The question caught Robespierre off guard. He took a step back. “I-” He spluttered, “I can’t - I can’t do that-”

“I didn’t ask if you could, I asked if you wanted to.”

“Why?”

Marat’s gaze was cool, coy. “Because I would have let you.”

Robespierre’s head spun. The unease had spiraled up from his throat, digging for purchase behind his eyes. “But we’re- We’re in the Tuileries, Marat. We’re in a public space. Someone so much as cracks open that door and catches us- catches us…. We would be discredited, maybe even killed. Your position, my position, that wouldn’t save us. If anyone walks through that door we are dead, do you understand me?” 

“Robespierre….”

There was a knock at the door. Both men jumped. Marat swore.

“Robespierre? Are you in there?” 

Danton. Robespierre hurriedly smoothed out his clothes and facial features, praying to god that Marat was doing the same. “Yes, what is it?”

Danton pushed the door open - they hadn’t locked it - and squeezed awkwardly into the little square room. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Oh,” his eyes alighted on Marat, “am I interrupting something?”

Marat’s face was twisted. His eyes blazed with anger, boring into Robespierre, but when he spoke his voice was cool and controlled. “Nothing important. Just some polite political musings.” He turned to Danton, his smile snakelike and sarcastic. “He’s all yours.”

“Excellent.” Danton focused his entire attention on Robespierre, already expounding on the issues that had brought him there. It was five minutes before Robespierre managed to break away. He gratefully inhaled the air in the corridor, glancing left and right. But Marat was already long gone. 

Marat wasn’t at the Convention the next day. Or the one after that. Ill again was the general assumption. 

Angry, Robespierre thought. Had he done something? Was Marat really sick, or was he just avoiding him? 

Maybe he should just leave it. Marat would get better, and in the meantime Robespierre’s unease had lessened. But no, he couldn’t do that. They’d agreed to be more.

Robespierre knocked on Marat’s door on the third evening. It was coming on supper time, and the sun was lowering itself slowly towards the horizon. Pink would show in the sky soon, like flower petals or hair ribbons. 

“I’m here to see Marat,” he said, when Albertine opened the door.

She gave him a hawk-like stare before turning into the house. “Jean-Paul!” she shouted. “Visitor!” 

There was a response Robespierre couldn’t quite catch. “What’d he say?”

“Fuck off.”

“Hmm.”

She stood at the door, staring at him. Finally: “You’re not going to leave, are you?”

“No.”

“May as well go torment him then. He’s in the bath, same as usual.”

Albertine moved aside, just enough for Robespierre to squeeze past. “Thank you, citoyenne.” 

She gave him a decidedly wicked smile. “See if you’re still thankful after he bites your head off.”

Climbing the narrow staircase, Robespierre fought hard to calm his racing heart. It’s only Marat, he told himself. Just Marat. No need to be nervous… or excited.

The bathroom door was cracked open slightly and Robespierre hesitated on the doorstep, unsure whether he should knock or just simply enter. Invite yourself in, he decided, then Marat can’t turn you away. 

Steeling himself, Robespierre pushed the door open. 

“Albertine!” Marat snapped, the moment Robespierre crossed the threshold. “What did I say about knocking -!”

“Marat.”

Marat looked up, surprise hardening to anger. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Yes.”

“Get out.” 

“I - what?”

“I said get out.”

“I came to visit you.”

Marat stared at him, cool fire behind his eyes. “I never would have guessed.” His voice dripped sarcasm. 

“Yes, well….” Robespierre paused, uncertain. “Can we talk?” 

Marat turned back to his work. “We are talking.”

“Well, yes, but I mean….” Robespierre sighed. So Marat was going to be difficult. Fine.

Robespierre turned and closed the door firmly behind him, locking it for good measure. Good lord, he prayed he could trust the woman downstairs not to eavesdrop.

“You’re mad at me.”

Marat stiffened as Robespierre perched on the bathtub. “No shit.”

“Why?” When the only reply was a snort Robespierre asked it again. “Why?”

With a deadly calm, Marat reached out, dipping his pen in the inkwell. He brought it back to the paper; hovering. “Why do you think?” Robespierre opened his mouth, but Marat cut him off. “And don’t give me one of your stupid ‘I don’t knows.’ Think Robespierre, really think about it. I know you’re smart enough.” 

“I really don’t -” Marat shot him a contemptuous glare. Robespierre swallowed hard. What on earth had happened? What had he done to deserve this? “Well,” he started again, “we were at the Convention….”

“Yes….”

“And I,” Robespierre swallowed again, flushing, “I kissed you.” 

“Brava.”

“You were teasing me and then Danton walked in…. Is that why you’re mad? Because I started conversing with Danton?”

With considerable care, Marat steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Why on earth would I give a fuck that you started talking with Danton?”

“I don’t know! Jealousy, I suppose? The fact that I hadn’t locked the door, and he could have caught us right in the act -!”

There was a loud smack and Robespierre jumped. Marat’s hands were flat on his writing board, head bowed and shoulders shaking. “NO,” Marat snapped. “That’s what you care about, that’s all you care about. It’s always ‘the door’ this and ‘the door’ that, and oh god forbid we get caught -”

“Because it could ruin us-!”

“Robespierre,” Marat hissed. “A door is not an off-switch for your feelings. You can’t just cut off a fundamental part of your nature by turning a lock. You can push it down, drown it out, shut me up, but we both know from experience that the only place that leads is to you filled with anxiety while guiltily kissing me senseless. None of that is going to change the fact that society doesn’t accept who you are. Who we are.” 

“I understand that Marat -”

“No,” Marat interrupted emphatically. “No you don’t. You keep hemming and hawing and toeing the line, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of waiting for you to make a decision.”

There was a pause, a beat. Marat inhaled sharply through his nose. He rolled his shoulders, sat up straight, coolly picking up his quill once more. 

“You know what? Forget it. I don’t want you spending every day bursting your britches in mortal terror. This, whatever it was between us, whatever it could have been, it’s over.” He pressed the quill to the paper. “From now on, our relationship is strictly professional.”

Robespierre sat very still. His perch on the bathtub suddenly felt extremely precarious. “Wait….”

Marat was bent back over his work. “What are you still doing here? I have some articles to write, you must have some sort of political business to attend to, we both must do our duty if we want to keep this country running.”

Robespierre was swimming through a fog of confusion. “So,” he managed, “that’s it?”

Marat nodded resolutely. “Yes. That’s it. Oh, and as you go, won’t you tell Albertine that the next time she allows a visitor in against my direct wishes I’ll see her sent to the guillotine?”

Robespierre nodded, standing. His legs felt shaky, out of place. “I’ll...yes.”

“Thank you.” Marat glanced up briefly, shooing Robespierre out with a flick of his hand. 

Robespierre complied, turning on his heel and crossing to the door in a haze. That was it. Marat was done with him. No more fleeting looks in the hallways. No more stolen kisses behind closed doors. No chance of seeing what would have happened, what being more meant. 

Marat, we were supposed to be more.

Robespierre froze, his hand on the doorknob. “This,” he murmured. “This isn’t right.” 

To hear it aloud gave him strength. Robespierre released the handle, pivoted, suddenly clear headed. “Marat. This isn’t right.”

Marat was writing now with unnecessary force, the tip of his quill leaving deep scratches on the paper. Yet when he spoke, his voice was unwavering. “It’s what you want.” 

“No.” Robespierre stepped towards him. He had to make Marat understand. “No, it’s -”

“You want security.” Marat wasn’t writing now, merely clenching his quill in a shaking fist. “You want an escape route. I just gave you both those things, so why don’t you shut your mouth, show me some goddamn gratitude, and go already?”

Another step. “Mon cher-”

“Don’t you dare. Don’t. You. Dare.” 

Impatience rose, hot and bilious in Robespierre’s throat. “Will you let me speak -”

“I gave you what you wanted!” Marat yelled. “Now get out of my house!”

“Shut up!” Robespierre screamed back. “Shut up and let me speak for one fucking second!”

Marat complied, struck silent by the outburst, fire still pouring from his eyes. 

Robespierre pinched his nose, letting out a deep breath. “Ever since that first kiss, I’ve been on edge.” He caught Marat’s eyes, steady, unwavering. “You’re right Marat. I do want safety.”

“Then -”

“I’m not finished!” Another deep breath, another step forward. There was no going back now. “I don’t want to spend my life constantly in fear. But I don’t think I have a choice. I can’t, I can’t spend my life repressing and ignoring… this.” 

Marat averted his gaze, back still ramrod straight. His hands were resting on the tub’s edge. Robespierre reached out, intertwining their fingers.

“Marat?” 

Marat yanked his hand away violently, folding his arms tightly about his chest.

“Marat.” Robespierre sighed. He studied the other man’s profile; the sharp nose, and heavy eyes, and ridged jaw. “Marat, please look at me.” 

Robespierre gazed at Marat’s face for what felt like an eternity. Please, he thought, please don’t let this be it. Then something shifted in Marat’s expression, in the tension of his jaw, and suddenly Robespierre was watching an avalanche, watching Marat come apart, watching his facade break and it’s chasm grow wide and something deep and ancient and hurting spill out. Marat hunched over, chin to chest, hands clenched tight against his ribs. His voice was soft, nearly a whisper: “You do not get to keep doing this Robespierre. If you want to stay, fine. But you have to make a decision.”

“I’m staying.”

A deep shudder passed through Marat’s body. He tensed, breathed deeply, then took up his quill once more. His voice shook slightly. “Good.”

Robespierre wanted to touch him. He wanted to kiss him and hold him, heal the harm he’d caused. He watched the other man write, watched the tension slowly leave his shoulders, watched the rise and fall of his chest with each cycle of breath. Slowly, Robespierre raised a hand to Marat’s face. When Marat didn’t pull away, Robespierre cupped his second hand to the other man’s jaw. 

“Jean-Paul.”

Finally, Marat looked at him, and his eyes were full of such a deep, incomprehensible, overwhelming emotion that Robespierre felt he was drowning. 

“Say it again.”

“Jean-Paul.” Marat let out a broken little laugh. But at least, Robespierre supposed, he was now smiling. He said it again: “Jean-Paul.”

The mischievous spark was coming back to Marat’s eyes. “You’re the worst.”

Robespierre laughed, pulling Marat into a hug. It was awkward, considering the tub, but Robespierre didn’t let go. Marat was holding him back, strong arms wrapped beneath Robespierre’s shoulders and Robespierre pulled him closer, letting Marat bury his face in his neck. He splayed his hands across Marat’s back, reveling in the warmth and texture of the other man’s skin. “I know.” 

“You’re an idiot.”

“I know.”

“You’re lucky I’m incredibly attracted to you.”

“Well, you’re lucky I’m incredibly attractive.”

Marat snorted, nose wrinkled by his smirk. “Sass is a good look for you. You should try it more often. Although it really doesn’t go with your pants, so you’d have to lose them first.”

“Not a chance.”

“Well, it was worth a shot.”

Robespierre laughed again. “Jean-Paul.”

Marat’s expression softened, made vulnerable by the words. “Yes?”

“I-” Robespierre paused, and Marat widened his eyes expectantly. What was he trying to say? “I want to kiss you.”

“Then do it.”

Gently, Robespierre ran his hand through Marat’s hair, down to the nape of his neck. He savored each sensation, each moment - Marat’s thick hair and rough skin, the puff of his breath and the gentle press of his nose against Robespierre’s cheek. Marat’s lips just a tantalizing hair from his, their smooth warmth, and the heat of his mouth and tongue when Robespierre pushed his lips apart to reach it. 

I’m staying, Robespierre thought. No matter what happens - I’m staying.


End file.
